


that’s the art of getting by

by sarewolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), POV Remus Lupin, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Raising Harry Potter, Remus Lupin Raises Harry Potter, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin Raise Harry Potter, Slow Build, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27300139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarewolf/pseuds/sarewolf
Summary: “What do you want me to do?” Remus says, tiredly. All he wants is to curl up on his bed. Smoke a pack of cigarettes. Get drunk. He can’t stop looking at Harry.“Remus...” Dumbledore is gentle. Remus hates when he has that tone. Hates that he knows it will hurt. “There is no one else left.”A bitter laugh escapes him. “So you’ll curse the poor thing with a werewolf for a guardian?”
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 1306
Kudos: 3366
Collections: Marauders, best fanfics ive read





	1. chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: discussion of child abuse.

_When you're young you don't think about_   
_How good things have a bad side_   
_You spend your time waiting around_   
_For the fall not the goodbye_   
_When you're naive and so green_   
_It makes it hard to believe_   
_How life works when you're older_

\- Laura Zocca, The Art Of Getting By 

Remus knows that happiness isn’t natural to him. Oh, he’s had glimpses of it. For a few short years he’d convinced himself that it was something he could hold in his hands, carve into his life like the etchings on a map. He had laughed often, abrasively, disgustingly joyful. Loved recklessly. Sometimes he can still feel the way it had sat in his chest and crinkled in the corner of his eyes. 

But a life like his can’t contain joy for long. He’d sensed it even then, pressing on the windows of Hogwarts. The outside slowly creeping in. James would smile it all away. _It will be okay Moony,_ he’d say. _As long as the Marauders stick together._ And he’d throw his arm across Remus’s shoulders and reel him back into whatever scheme they were conjuring up. 

After... _after,_ Remus remembers the way Lily would try to smooth over any worry. Would hold them together, tentatively, like they were all precious. Maybe she was the only one who knew how breakable they were. It makes Remus want to cry, but then... he hasn’t done that in a long time either. 

*

When Remus apparates to his front door and sees Dumbledore and McGonagall waiting patiently, he almost wants to turn around and walk the other way. He knows what he looks like. His clothes are old, worn and wrinkled. He stinks of smoke and sex. He is scraped empty, a bag of bones and a fresh scar on his face that catches the light. It’s been nearly three years since... and they have not been kind years to him. Remus sighs, resignedly walks forward. Then he shudders to a stop. 

Between the two professors is a little boy. He’s so small, Remus almost missed him hiding in the robes that swarm around him. He has messy, jet-black hair and dark skin. His eyes are green and round. His clothes hang off him and his face has a mottled, angry bruise across one cheek. 

Remus can feel his breath leave his body. It’s been so long since he’s seen – _before_... fuck. His eyes flash up to Dumbledore’s. He is wrenched apart and adrift and much too hungover to deal with this. 

“We have one last thing to ask of you, Mr Lupin,” says Dumbledore calmly. 

*

Once he has a cup of tea in his hands – with an added splash of whiskey that has McGonagall frowning at the bruises on his knuckles – he feels less like his world is falling around his ears.  
  
Harry, _Merlin it’s Harry_ , is playing on the floor, scribbling with some pencils that Dumbledore has conjured up from who knows where. 

“The boy isn’t safe with them,” Minerva says. “I thought as much when we dropped him off, that terrible night. So I went back to check after Christmas, and as you can see...” she trails off. 

Remus looks at Harry again, at the hand-shaped bruise on his face and the ones Dumbledore say curl around his arms. Dursley did have big, meaty hands... that one time Remus met him. Anger burns at the back of his throat as he swallows his whiskey-tea.

“What do you want me to do?” Remus says, tiredly. All he wants is to curl up on his bed. Smoke a pack of cigarettes. Get drunk. He can’t stop looking at Harry. 

“Remus...” Dumbledore is gentle. Remus hates when he has that tone. Hates that he knows it will hurt. “There is no one else left.” 

A bitter laugh escapes him. “So you’ll curse the poor thing with a werewolf for a guardian?” He stands up, can’t bear to sit across from the two commanders of a war that he is still not recovered from. “Surely Molly Weasley has a place in her home for another one?” 

“She has a young baby and six other children, Remus.” 

“The halls of Hogwarts, then.”  
  
“Cold stone and no one to call his own?” Dumbledore looks over his half-moon glasses at him. Delivers a deadly blow. “James would have wanted...” 

Remus snarls. “Don’t tell me what Ja... don’t tell me what he would have wanted, because it certainly wouldn’t be this.” He clenches his hands around his tea cup and looks at Harry. The boy is staring at him now, wide-eyed. Remus forces himself not to think of Lily. 

He turns back to the people who welcomed a young werewolf into their school. Made sure he was warm and safe in Gryffindor tower. Assigned him to a dormitory with...he still can’t bear to think of them. It still hurts too much, like a bad dream. Like another life, best to forget. But he can’t, not with Harry staring at him. 

“I have _nothing,”_ Remus’s voice cracks. “Nothing left. You have given and taken it all.” 

McGonagall frowns and Remus can’t bear the fucking pity of it. When Dumbledore looks at him gravely, he knows that he is going to pull at the tatters left of his life anyway.   
  
“Maybe it is Harry who will give something to you.”

*

Remus doesn’t really remember what happened _after_... after the night his whole fucking world exploded. He has snippets of celebrations in the street. He’d poked his head out the window and watched as wizards and witches cried in desperate, gasping happiness.

“Oi!” He’d yelled. “What’s happened?”

A young witch had looked up at him. Remus remembers that she’d been a vision of Lily. Her eyes were filled with tears.

“The war is over! He is dead.”  
  
Remus had wanted to cry. And laugh hysterically. Most of all he’d wanted to sweep James and Peter and Lily and Harry and _Siri... him,_ in his arms and say _we made it, we fucking made it_. Bruised and angry but alive _._

“How?” He had stuttered instead.  
  
“The Boy Who Lived, that’s who.” Another wizard grabbed the girl in his arms and spun her around. She laughed delightedly through her sobs.  
  
“Merlin give thanks to Harry Potter!”

Remus remembers reeling backwards. He remembers the taste of vomit in his mouth when he was sick on the floor. He remembers shaking at the smack of the paper delivered by an owl, as if it were an ordinary morning. _The war is over_ , it read _, James and Lily Potter dead at the hands of You Know Who._

He remembers the owls that filled the sky in tawny colours, drowning out the sun. The Wizarding population couldn’t keep up – Remus couldn’t keep up, couldn’t breathe, the manic, laughing face taunting him in black and white. _Traitor Sirius Black arrested for the murder of 12 muggles. All that is left of Peter Pettigrew is one finger..._

He thinks it might have been a week of lying blankly in that room surrounded by sick and darkness before anyone came. The key had rattled in the lock. Remus remembers the old, rusted clinking. He remembers Moody grumbling _should’ve remembered the boy sooner, Albus_ and Dumbledore lowering his eyes. 

*

Dumbledore and McGonagall leave with the promise of bringing more things for Harry. Remus waves them away and sits on the floor next to the toddler. They stare at each other. _What the fuck am I going to do now?_ Remus thinks.

Harry is quiet... quieter than Remus remembers him being when he was a baby. He had been such a little thing, learning to walk and babble. Clapping and smearing pumpkin mash on the walls with a mischievous grin. _Mumma!_ He’d say. _Dadda and Padf..._ Remus shakes his head. 

“I’m...” he pauses. He feels ridiculous for being scared. The boy is only four. There is very little chance of him remembering the tired, world-angry twenty year old who popped so rarely into his life between missions. But Remus had been at the birth, had held the child gently and looked into his eyes. Had watched Lily’s fill with tears of happiness. And James, beaming. He takes a breath. 

“I’m Remus,” he says. “I’m going to take care of you. Would you like that, Harry?” 

Harry reaches out. Traces the new scar running from Remus’s eyebrow, across his nose and cheek. Remus closes his eyes, and lets him.

“Okay,” Harry says, in a thin voice. He sounds just as scared as Remus. 

“Okay,” Remus repeats. He breathes. And breathes. 

*

Dumbledore sends Molly Weasley. She pretends not to look disapproving at the admittedly-horrendous state of Remus’s flat. Falling apart, chipped walls and no personal belongings. All he can afford, really.  
  
“I know,” he says. “I suppose finding a new place is next.” 

He tries not to sound overwhelmed, but she must sense the panic in his voice. He is twenty four. He is looking after his dead best friends’ son. He needs a cigarette. 

“Sit down before you fall,” Molly says. He slumps into the dining chair. 

“Now I’ve brought you toys. Blankets. Clothes – Ron has grown out of these already and Dumbledore said Harry is small for his age. I’ve also got books – for him and for you. Read them, ignore the advice you don’t like and cling to the parts you do. Sleep when you can. Don’t forget to eat,” she pauses, looks him up and down. “You’re too skinny, Remus.” 

“Fuck, Molly,” he says. “How...?” 

He leaves all the questions he wants to ask hanging in the air. _How do I do this? How do I make sure I don’t fuck him up? How do I look at him without thinking of them?_

“I know,” she says. She puts her hand on his shoulder.  
  
*

Remus gives Harry his bed. The boy looks like he’s drowning in the duvet, a tiny thing in a sea of blankets. He doesn’t complain. In fact, he barely says a word.  
  
“You okay, Harry?” 

The boy nods his head. 

“Okay, well... g‘night.” Remus switches the light off. 

Later, as Remus quietly smokes a cigarette out his window and lets the cold air soothe the anxiety-heat creeping up his neck, he hears a sound from the bedroom. 

He stubs out his cigarette and quietly pushes open the door. “Harry?” He murmurs. 

For a second, panic grips his body. Harry isn’t in his bed. Instead it lies empty, the duvet pulled down so that it drips onto the floor. Remus follows it with his eyes, and sees Harry curled up underneath the bed. They look at each other. 

“Miss my cupboard,” Harry says sadly. He blinks at Remus tearily.

“Okay,” Remus breathes. Dumbledore – or McGonagall... someone in the blur of it all – had told him about Harry’s last living quarters. A tiny boy in a tiny cupboard, hidden away. But not just any boy. A Potter. James Potter and Lily Evans’s son. Remus can feel the sick rising in his throat. 

While Remus had been drinking, screwing around with whoever would take his scarred body, smoking in alleyways and forgetting, forgetting it all _so desperately._.. Harry had been forgotten too. 

_What a monster I am,_ Remus thinks angrily to himself.

“I’m sorry Harry,” he says instead. “There’s no cupboard here. But how about I stay? Would that make you feel better?” 

Harry nods and Remus helps him back into bed. He tucks Harry in firmly, more like the cocoon of his cupboard. He perches tentatively on the edge of the bed. 

“Story?” Harry asks him. 

Remus looks down at him and aches so sharply that he wants to cry – suddenly – like a child. He swallows. “Have you heard the one about Babbity Rabbity?” He says.  
  
Harry shakes his head. 

As Remus starts to tell him the story, haltingly from memory, Harry snakes one arm out of the duvet and holds Remus’s hand. Remus clutches it in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, this story has been floating around my brain for a while now. Not sure how many chapters quite yet, but plan to update weekly. Feedback is welcome, always. Hit me up with comments, theories or anything you'd like to see in the work.


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: reference to child abuse.

_Just breathing, my hearts with you_  
_Thought we'd try to build a home_  
_Turns out I was wrong_  
_I was just leaving, leaving like I do_  
_Leaving like I do_

\- Ryan Montbleau, I Was Just Leaving

Dumbledore urges Remus to flee somewhere remote. Hide in France. Or Ireland. But Remus... he understands how it feels to grow up hidden. A shameful secret clawing in the basement, watching other children from a distance. Wondering why the scars on his body had wrenched him from the world.

His mother had tried her best — and he can't say he’d had an unhappy childhood, simply a quiet, lonely one of books and cracking bones. Even when he was roaming the Forbidden Forest with animals he called pack and boys he called friends, he felt that lonely child brimming beneath the surface. An imposter who had snuck into the world craving friendship handed out like crumbs. And love – oh, well he threw himself on that viciously.

He can’t create the same life for James and Lily’s child. Not when James had grown up bathed in so much love yet refused to take a drop of it for granted. And Lily, who knew how powerfully love could hurt but chose to wield it with kindness instead. Harry deserves that. He deserves more than that.

Remus is an awful choice to give it to him. 

*

“I hope you know what you’re doing, boy,” Alastor Moody says as smoke fills the crisp air between them. He tilts sideways, sways a little as he rests on the wooden leg gained from a battle Remus still feels he’s fighting. 

Harry is already inside their new cottage, safe beneath the protection spells they’ve guarded it with — Remus can hear him rummaging around, opening and closing cupboards curiously. 

It’s an old Order safe house, nestled by the woods at the edge of a small Muggle village. They’re not too far from the high street, where kids in school uniforms nick sweets from the corner shop and gossip spreads like Fiendfyre. It’s disgustingly ordinary and Remus already misses the anonymity of his dingy London flat. 

“He can’t grow up in the Wizarding world,” Remus says. He wants to say, _I can't stay in the Wizarding world_. “He’s too famous.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. 

Moody scoffs. “And it’s too dangerous. See what happened to the Longbottoms?”

“Exactly. But I won’t...” Remus blows out a breath. “It can’t just be him and me. It isn’t fair on a little boy.” 

If he’s honest with himself, Remus knows it’s because he doesn’t think he has enough love to give anymore. Harry can’t live on scraps and that is all Remus has left. He needs people. Children he can laugh with, fight with, grow with. A village he can roam in freely, without fear. Oh Remus will be there watching it all, patching up scraped knees and broken hearts. But Harry needs to be filled with love. Overflowing with it. 

“I hear the Weasleys will be taking him at least once a month.” Moody gives Remus a sideways look. 

“Yes,” Remus says tiredly. “I won’t have him anywhere near when...”  
  
Moody flicks his cigarette to the floor, stamps it out with his wooden leg. “Oh I’m not concerned about that shit. You know more protection and defensive spells than some of our best Aurors.” 

Moody looks at the gnarled and twisted trees that overarch Remus’s new home, like he can see the layers and layers of spells they’ve placed – some darker than others. 

“This whole operation... it’s not secure,” Moody says. “He was meant to be with his mother’s sister. Blood protection. Someone will go looking for him soon and notice that Harry Potter isn’t where he’s supposed to be. And it’s hard to be vigilant when so many people know where and who the boy is with.” 

“Only people from the Order know,” Remus replies. “And even then, only a few.” 

Moody barks out a mad laugh. “Because the Order is so good at keeping secrets,” he bites. Then he glances at Remus. “You know better than anyone, Lupin, just how blind we are.”  
  
Remus turns back to look at the cottage, sees Harry placing his toys in an orderly line across the windowsill. Remembers the black dog plushie James had bought his son as a joke, in Harry’s old life. Feels sick with the thought of his new one.

“I rarely make the same mistake twice.” 

*

Harry likes burnt toast with thick honey. It drips onto his plate and smears his face golden. He runs around with sticky fingers, he doesn’t put shoes on, he breaks things and cries, he is so quiet sometimes Remus wants to shake him. 

When he is not playing silently or roaming around the house, Harry watches him. His eyes follow Remus accusingly around their disaster of a cottage, stares as he organises books onto shelves and unpacks the mountains of blankets that Molly Weasley has knitted for them and mashes pumpkin and folds socks. 

Once, after a dinner that Remus has destroyed so badly the pan smokes and sputters, Harry’s eyes seem to trace his pacing as he fights the urge to throw all the dishes out the window. Back and forth, back and forth. Remus takes a deep breath. 

_You’re really fucking this up_ , every moment of silence seems to tell him. _You have no bloody clue what you’re doing, do you?_

*

Remus tries not to let himself think of the past. After, after it all... he shut himself down. Barely picked up his wand. Simply got up every morning. Went to a job at the pub. Or bookstore. Or manual labour. Whatever was around when Remus inevitably got fired. He still brushed his teeth. Dressed. It was habit, perhaps. 

Occasionally Remus took too many drugs. He would drink and drink and drink and then have sex with people who looked too much like... but didn’t that just prove there was still life left in him? It was too simple to give up. Too easy. 

He remembers begging Dumbledore, once. When he was dragged to a safe house and thrown in a shower and told the full story. _Are you sure?_ Remus had sobbed. It was the last time he cried. _Are you sure?_

After that, Remus stopped seeing anyone from the Order. There was nobody left to see anyway. But he wanted a clean break – like all other chapters in his life. Before the wolf. After the wolf. Before Hogwarts. After Hogwarts. Before Halloween. After Halloween.

Perhaps that is how he knows to keep stumbling forward. One foot in front of the other. On and on. 

*

One night, Remus can hear Harry start to cry. 

Remus is already awake, can feel his bones shifting beneath his skin with the pull of the moon and the thoughts that circle endlessly like a record on repeat. In his old-new life, this would be when Remus decided to get truly plastered, would follow the hand on his lower back leading him to bed. Always someone different. 

Instead there is a tiny boy with messy black hair crying alone in his bedroom next door. Remus tries not to feel tired, already. Tries not to wish for the past. Or the past-past. He pushes Harry’s door open slowly. 

“A‘right Harry?” He asks. The boy is curled up, clutching his blanket and a rabbit toy with torn ears that Molly has given him. His tears trail into the collar of his pyjamas.

“Scared of monsters,” Harry says sadly. 

_Oh there are plenty_ , Remus wants to say. Instead he settles into a calm, reassuring expression. “Let me show you something,” he replies. 

Harry clambers out of bed and together they put on slippers and walk outside. It’s dark, the moon barely a sliver. The forest in their backyard sways in the breeze and the sound of it is an angry rustle. It could be frightening, Remus supposes, if you weren’t so used to winding in the empty spaces between trees. 

“Watch,” he says. And he raises his wand so that all the forest is filled with light – the wards he and Moody placed shimmering brightly. Rabbits jump, startled and birds shake from their nests confused by the not-sun. Harry is wide-eyed, the green of the forest in the green of his eyes – like damp-new, like seeing magic for the first time. 

“This is our home,” Remus says fiercely. “And no monster can pass.”  
  
Harry looks up at him in wonder. He shuffles closer and Remus picks him up. He settles Harry on his aching hip and the boy’s black hair tickles his nose. Remus remembers how James would style his when he was eleven – all sticking up and mad. How it would look after a night of frantic frolicking in the woods. 

“ _Well_...” Remus amends, because he refuses to make promises he cannot keep. His eyes flick to the pale moon. “Only the ones we know.” 

*

When Lily had given birth, Remus and... Remus and Sirius had been there.

The cry had rung out. Harry’s first. Remus had tried not to think of the cries in battle, scared and urgent. Or the howls of werewolves to the moon that ruled them. Sirius had turned to Remus. The smile on his face had been _golden_ and he had kissed Remus full on the mouth, like Harry was theirs too.

That moment is etched, forever. As much as Remus tries to claw it out. As much as he tries to understand how that much joy can turn to so much destruction. 

Lily had looked tired, when they were permitted to enter. Tired but glowing and fierce and strong. Her arms curled protectively around her baby. Her red hair falling to cover the child, like a charm warning those who could hurt him. 

Remus had smoothed a hand over her head and she had smiled up at him. He remembers the tears in her eyes. He remembers James shaking. So young and scared. So desperately hopeful. “Congratulations,” he had murmured as he kissed her temple. 

Later, Remus had stepped outside alone.

The night air had been cool. Remus’s hands had shook as he fumbled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it with a click of his fingers. The smoke curled in his mouth and he had blown it out in a shape resembling a dragon, just like _he_ used to when they were young and still learning not to cough with each inhale. Remus remembers it all so clearly, even as he tries to blow the smoke of it away. 

James had snuck up behind him. “One for me?” He'd asked. 

“Last one before you become a proper family man.”  
  
James’s laugh had echoed in the empty night as he took the offered cigarette. “To be honest mate, it still doesn’t feel real.” 

“You and Lils are going to be stellar parents,” Remus remembers telling him. He had glanced at James, saw how fearless and tired they all were. He wants to remember James like that, forever. Glowing. “I mean that.”

James had smiled, nudged him with his shoulders. “Sirius will be wanting his own next,” he joked as he took a drag of his cigarette. 

Remus had looked away. “I’m leaving tomorrow," he'd confessed. James had known what it meant. He watched Remus steadily. “Another mission.” 

“Ah,” James flicked his cigarette. Let the ash drift to the ground. 

“Haven’t had a chance to tell him yet. Not with...” 

“I s’pose you’ll tell him while you’re packing again, will you?” 

“James...” Remus had sighed. So many mistakes had been made, during the war. So many missed conversations. So many raised voices. If Remus could go back... “You know I don’t want to,” he had said instead. 

“C’mon Moony,” James replied with a false cheer. “We both know how invaluable that brain of yours is. Dumbledore will send you on a jaunty research trip and you can come up with another brilliant invention like your Patronus messages.”  
  
Remus had taken a deep breath. The missions that Dumbledore assigned him made him sick. And scared. And he wasn't able to tell anyone even though the secret of it had already felt like it was spilling out. Like it was already written on his body. He had been angry, so often. Helplessly angry that none of them knew. It wasn't their fault. Remus was good at hiding. It was an art to him. But they should have _known._

“Will you be back for the moon?” James had asked.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Remus remembers replying, even though he had been.

No, he did not return for that moon. In fact, he would end up missing a few moons, howling and clawing it away with packs that destroyed Remus piece by piece. And when he did come back, it would seem the world had shifted, slightly. Like he was out of sync with the Marauders. One step behind. Even _he_ had been different. Remus can see that now. Wishes he'd seen it then. 

“Just come home, yeah?” James had said simply. He had put his hand on Remus’s shoulder. Remus remembers feeling time slipping through James's curled fingers as he tried desperately to hold on, to pull it back to harmless mischief in Hogwarts corridors. Friends safe and laughing by the fire.

Remus had nodded. Inhaled smoke slowly. Exhaled slower. This time, a wolf leapt into the air.

*

The first time Harry laughs – a proper giggling, toddler laugh – Remus feels a knot unwind in his chest. He lets the sound of it echo in him. He watches as the butterfly tickles Harry’s nose, such a small thing to delight in. Such a wonder that this can still exist. He reminds himself that the war didn’t take Harry like it did Remus. 

He joins the boy outside to watch the fluttering of colour as more butterflies join the dance. Harry chases them, runs around him, between his legs, bumping into him and yelling "Remy, Remy look!"  
  
His arms are skinny but the bruise on his face is nearly gone. 

_"_ Aren't they lovely, Harry?" Remus replies. He thinks of Lily and how she had looked at her son like he was a miracle. Like she didn’t know what to do with something so precious. And James, who cried in happiness. Laughed and loved in the darkest of times. 

He hopes they can see Harry now. He hopes they can see that Remus did come home. Bruised and battered but carrying their child into some semblance of a life. He hopes they can _see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everyone doing out there? Wolfstar fic is the only way to get through the end of 2020 tbh. As usual, feedback is more than welcome, my friends.


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: PTSD response, reference to child abuse.

_I want someone to grow with_   
_Songs I can sing to_   
_And a family to cling to_   
_But if I can't get the things I want_   
_If I can't get the things I want_   
_Just give me what I need_

\- The Paper Kites, On The Train Ride Home

When Remus hears the charm alerting him that someone has apparated near their home, it takes him a moment to find his wand. He kicks himself for not being more battle-ready, reminds himself of his training.

It's just Dumbledore. He ducks to enter the house, wearing a long, purple, pointy hat that Remus hopes the neighbours didn't see. He fidgets as the man peers around Harry’s new home.

There is a burgundy velvet sofa that sags sadly in one corner. A fireplace with no wood. Mostly-empty bookshelves. A colourful corner where Harry has run out of paper and moved to the walls instead. A kitchen with only enough pots, pans and dishes for two. There is no cupboard under the stairs.  
  
Dumbledore looks at Remus gravely – at this barely-functioning home and life – and hands him the key to the Potter vault.

"For you to take care of the boy," he says. "I know money is not..."

Remus thanks him hurriedly, exchanges pleasantries that he won't remember later and throws up in the kitchen sink when Dumbledore leaves.

James had tried to give him money, in those long years of war when Remus and Sir... when they were in a fight. Would hide it in bags, would turn up at his latest flat with groceries, would secretly transfer galleons to his vault.

Remus remembers yelling at Lily one day, _I’m not your fucking charity case,_ and Lily raising an eyebrow, _no Remus, you’re our friend so just bloody well shut up and go buy some vegetables._

Now Remus has their child and fortune. He vows that every coin will be spent on Harry. Not a sickle for himself. And when the boy turns 17, Harry will be given back the vault that is owed to him. A cruel exchange for a dead family. 

*

Remus spends time in the garden. The cottage has been abandoned for so long that weeds and vines have intertwined with each other on the dense floor. It feels like he is doing something useful, when he digs his hands into the dirt and realises that there are still things in this world that grow. It feels like repentance. 

Harry helps. He puts his wellie boots on and totters around, jumps in mud piles and enthusiastically rips out plants. He asks questions, endlessly. _What’s this, Remy? What’s that? Watch this!_

One day as they work in the front garden, a neighbour wanders past. Others have been curious, some doing the circuit to reach Harry and Remus’s house at the very end of the lane. Few have been brave enough to approach. 

This woman is elderly, her cane tap tap taps and then comes to a stop. “Oh it’s nice to see this place with life in it again,” she muses to herself.

Remus looks up. He knows she sees the scars, because her eyes trace his face. Then she flicks over to Harry. The boy looks so different from Remus. Dark skin where Remus is pale. Short and increasingly-stocky where Remus is bones. 

“Yes, it will be quite beautiful when it’s finished,” Remus says politely.   
  
“Have you and your wife moved into the area?”  
  
 _Oh,_ Remus thinks. _This is a gossip mission._

“Just the two of us,” he says, pointing to Harry. He stands up. “I would shake your hand, but...” He looks down at his dirt-palms. 

“No need dear.” The woman has a kind face. Her white hair reaches the middle of her back and she wears a blue dress. “I’m Neris. I live a few streets over.” 

“Remus,” he replies. “And this is Harry, my...” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He is not Harry’s father. Not his legal anything. Certainly not his godfather. _The son of my two dead best friends. Killed by my..._

“Remy looks after me,” Harry says quietly. He sidles up to Remus. “We make dirt. And soup. Dirt soup. I like it.”  
  
Neris laughs. “Well, nice to meet you both. If you need anything, we’re a friendly bunch. Make sure you introduce yourself down at the market.” 

As the woman taps away on her cane, Remus blows out a breath. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation so ordinary, so free of pain. He looks down at Harry.  
  
“That didn’t go too badly, did it?”  
  
Harry squints at him and dives into the mud headfirst. 

*

They go to the shops the next day. Remus dresses a wriggly Harry in his nicest clothes so the pair can make a semi-decent impression.

As they walk along the street, they hold hands. Harry’s eyes are wide. People cycle past and teenagers smoke discreetly behind dumpsters. There is no magic in the air, and Remus’s shoulders relax. 

They pop into the market to pick up meat and vegetables and rice and pasta. Harry caresses each carrot and potato before they choose it and Remus lets him, just to see the happiness on his face. 

At the checkout, a young girl with wavy black hair scans their groceries and smiles down at Harry. She gives him a lollipop for free and he clutches it in his hands. 

“Say thank you, Harry.” Remus nudges him. 

“Thank you!” The boy chirps.

“Cute kid,” the checkout girl says to Remus. Her name tag says Gemma and she smiles at him shyly. “Just like his Dad.” She clumsily brushes a piece of hair off her face, looks at him from under dark, soft eyelashes. 

_I’m being flirted with_ , Remus thinks distantly. He wonders why a girl so young would be interested in a man with a face full of scars and a child. He studies her and quickly realises she is probably only a few years younger than him. _What a difference war makes._

“He’s not... I’m not...” 

“Oh!” Gemma says. “Wait. You must be the two from End Lane. Gran said you’d be ‘round soon.” The scanner beeps and Gemma hits a key without looking at it. 

“Neris is your Gran?” 

“Sure is. The old bat likes to wander in the woods. You’ll see her go past your house every so often.”  
  
“She seems very nice,” Remus murmurs.  
  
Gemma smiles. “Oh yes, everyone here is nice. Even the yobs over there.” She tilts her head towards the smoking teenagers and her eyes crinkle in a fond smile. “There’s rarely any trouble in this village, you’ll soon see that. In fact, you two moving here will probably churn the gossip mill for another few weeks at least. Thanks for that, by the way. Stops them talking about my indiscretions.” 

The girl winks. With her dark hair and grey eyes she looks too much like someone Remus used to know. They leave the store hurriedly.

*

Gemma is right in her assumption that the villagers seem to be fascinated with Remus and his young ward. They all stop and watch as the pair walk by. Harry cheerily waves and Remus nods his head. Some people wave back. 

When Harry plasters himself against the window of a sweet shop saying _Remy, Remy, chocolate_ , a mum with a daughter the same age smiles in commiseration. Harry can’t be dragged away until they have a bag of sweets each. 

Then in the charity store, an old man behind the counter grills Remus on the latest fashion in London – as if Remus has a clue – and watches as Harry carefully picks out an orange shirt. “Not that colour,” the man grumbles. He stands up, offers Harry a small, forest green sweater. Harry clutches it to his chest, his eyes wide. “This one suits you much better, lad. Matches the eyes.” 

And in the toy store, a plump woman with a kind face coos over Harry and shows him where toys for the _best behaving boys_ are. She smiles at Remus as Harry picks one from the pile.  
  
“You can choose more than that,” Remus says. He’s at another shelf, selecting educational products. _Fuck I’m meant to be teaching him things_ , Remus thinks. _Not just letting him eat dirt and draw on walls._

He watches as Harry pauses. Makes another selection and looks back at Remus. Remus nods and Harry smiles. 

*

They have lunch in the pub. There is an empty booth in the corner. Remus tries not to imagine Peter sitting there, already nursing a beer and waiting patiently for people he loyally calls friends but seem to consistently let him down. They would miss pub nights so regularly, during the war. Peter would be disappointed every time. Remus shakes his head and tries not to think of Peter at all. 

Harry and Remus choose a seat by the window. The village outside bumbles along and they both watch, a little stunned at this new life they have found themselves in. Then they look at the menus, Harry holding his upside down and pretending to read with a frown. It’s cute. It hurts Remus to think that. He wishes he wasn’t the only one to witness it. 

“What would you like?” Remus asks.  
  
Harry gazes at him, confused. 

“What do you like to eat, Harry? There’s bangers and mash. Fish and chips.” Remus points at the pictures that are on the menu. Harry watches his finger. “For lunch.” 

“Don’t know,” he says. Harry sounds small, suddenly. “Not allowed.”

Remus swallows. _Oh_. 

“You’re allowed anything you want, Harry,” he replies gently. “Shall we try fish and chips? It comes with mushy peas.”  
  
Harry looks up at him and grins suddenly. “Mushy mushy. Like the green slime we found in the garden, Remy?”  
  
“But much tastier.” 

When the pub starts to fill with locals and Harry devours an entire bowl of mushy peas, the bartender switches the television to football. Remus watches men in red and gold run around and remembers arguing with James that football is much better than Quidditch. _But you fly, Remus! Fly! I won’t have this slander._

Suddenly, a man behind them starts to yell. “Oi what does the ref think he’s doing!? Bloody bastard!” 

Remus flinches at the sound. He’s thrown back into a battle during the war, one of many that sneak up on him in the strangest of moments. With green and red bolts of light. Bodies thudding to the floor. Maniacal laughter and dark red blood that drips from Remus’s neck. 

Sirius screaming, _you fucking bastard,_ in between curses and his friends out there – defenseless and duelling and Remus can’t _see_ them and Sirius pulls him back against him, hard, protects them with a shield charm and... he takes a deep breath and a shaky sip of his beer. Tries to clear his head. 

What he doesn’t miss, even in the midst of his own panic, is that Harry had flinched too. _Harry had flinched too._ Had raised his arm to protect his face. The boy has tears in his eyes that he tries to blink away. The man behind them is grumbling under his breath. 

Remus reaches across the table towards Harry, touches his hand gently. “Hey,” he says quietly. “How about we take all this home and crack open some toys, yeah?” 

Harry nods. 

*

That night, Harry crashes to sleep on the sofa. His black hair sticks up. His limbs are splayed and every so often he murmurs to himself. Remus watches him in silence. Pulls a blanket over the boy and reassures himself with every rise and fall of his little chest. Every breath. Every smile in his sleep. 

He goes outside for a smoke. The air is cold and the moon nearly full. Soon it will be time to drop Harry at the Weasley’s and become a beast, once again. Soon it will be Halloween, and three years since... 

Remus looks up at the stars. It’s a clear night. He remembers Astronomy lessons in the tower, James and... him, making mischief in the corner. Remus had been partnered with Peter. The poor boy had been scared of the centaur that taught the class. His hands had shaken the telescope and moved it slightly out of position. _I can’t see_ , Peter had said despairingly. _It’s all just darkness._

Not long after Peter had been killed, his mother had been given an Order of Merlin. Remus had been drunk when he’d seen the picture in an old copy of the Prophet, her hands shaking as she held the medal and tried not to cry. It was a very poor price to pay for betrayal.

“What I don’t understand,” Remus had pleaded with Dumbledore. “...is why? Why, why, why.” His voice had been hoarse. He’d been yelling. 

“We may never know, my boy _,_ ” Dumbledore had said. 

“But he... he loved us.” Remus had been empty and angry. What he wanted to say was, _but he loved me_. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. To say it out loud was to say the truth of the matter, which is that maybe he never did. 

Remus finishes his cigarette. He looks up at the sky one last time. And if he is drawn to the Canis Major constellation and traces it angrily, hungrily, with his eyes... who is there to judge him? Nothing but the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! This chapter practically wrote itself, so I thought I would post it early. If you have any feedback or just want to chat about the man that is Remus Lupin, comments are more than welcome.


	4. chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: drug use, references to sex, problematic coping mechanisms.

_They say that suffering will make a woman wiser_  
_I hate being asked if I am some sort of survivor_  
_But all I know is I have kept myself steady_  
_I walk that line between the darkness and the ready_

\- Nadia Reid, High & Lonely

Remus can’t get out of bed. He can feel the pull in his bones, in the way they ache and splinter in his body – ready to crack with the rise of the moon. _A case of the monthlies_ , he thinks in a voice that echoes from the past. Lily, by the fire. 

Over the years, Remus has carved shapes out of himself. He doesn’t mean physically – though he has done plenty of that too – but the necessary removal of parts that simply hurt too much. He tears at them like the wolf tears at his face or gnaws at his foot. Get rid of the source quick, before it can fester and gangrene and infect the rest of the body. 

But when it is the moon. When the wolf hides beneath a single layer of skin, ready to hunt and fight and feast and fuck and... the shapes he has carefully removed slam back in and the memories overwhelm his senses, reverberate like pain up and down his weak, human body. 

Shapes like Hogwarts. The slope of the grounds. The circle moon over the lake. And Prongs, their steadfast leader galloping in joy. Or Wormtail, riding high on antlers. And, and... _Padfoot_. With the wolf. By its side, nipping and playful and running and licking. Oh, on the full moon the pack would run and it was recklessly free.

Every moon after, _after_ , has been empty. And the wolf has been angry. It misses Padfoot in a desperate amplification of all the ways Remus does. It misses home. It misses love and family. So it takes it out on the closest thing there is. 

Remus closes his eyes and takes a deep, trembling breath. Tries not to _feel_ even as his body shudders in a sick practice run of the shift. Tries to resist, like always. Fails, like always. He knows he needs to get up. He needs to make Harry breakfast. He needs to watch him buzz about outside in beautiful bursts of innocent energy and laugh and learn and, and, and... 

Instead, Remus lies there. And eventually Harry finds him. He climbs up into bed and slips under the covers. Rests his head on Remus’s chest. Harry seems to understand silence. It’s something they have in common, even though Remus wishes desperately they didn’t. The need to be still – for a moment. The pain that can choke a single second. 

The tiny child opens a book – one they picked out from the store together. Remus sits up. He reads the words but doesn’t hear them. Harry seems content. His weight anchors Remus. A centre point, a fixture to the world that he will disappear from. Another person here, to hold his bones together for as long as they can. 

_Pack,_ his mind whispers. _Pack, pack, pack, pack..._

*

Eventually, Remus and Harry stumble downstairs. It is late in the day, the afternoon sun is leaking across the ground and warming the garden with a golden hue. They make sandwiches. Harry eats five. Remus chews on one, doesn’t taste it. 

“You know what’s happening, don’t you Harry?” Remus says. He won’t, he _can’t_ lie. Not to Harry. Not about this. 

“Remy turn into a wolf,” Harry says. The boy looks up at him from under a dark fringe of hair. 

_I need to get that cut,_ Remus thinks absentmindedly. _No, I need to ask him if he wants it cut. I need, I need_... he feels his stomach turn. He feels his body turn. Preparing, preparing... 

“That’s right,” he replies instead. “You’ll be staying with Molly, you remember her? She’ll be having you for a sleepover. You can play with her son Ron, he’s the same age as you. And in the morning, I’ll come and get you. That sound okay?”  
  
Harry watches him gravely. “Remy be okay?” 

_Oh Harry._ Remus wants to hold him, suddenly. Wants to stay in their own pocket of the world that they have carved out, together. Wants to put it in a pensieve and live it over and over, the heady mixture of happiness and pain. Can’t bear to forget how they can coexist and make each other sweeter. 

“Yes Harry,” he says tiredly. “I’ll be okay.”  
  
It is maybe the first lie he has told Harry. Maybe. 

*

 _Darling_ , Remus remembers Sirius kissing into his ear in the morning after a full moon, when it was just the two of them curled on a splintered, wooden floor. _Darling, wake up._ Sirius’s callused hands had traced the new, open and bleeding wounds that dripped onto the ground. Had helped patch the tears up tenderly, like they were something to still be loved, even when they hurt. Especially when. 

Remus blinks his eyes open. He is alone. His pain is his. It leaks unhindered onto the floor. He lets it, for a long time. Doesn’t let himself think that maybe he likes it. Maybe he deserves it. For letting himself have something so fucking beautiful and for letting war destroy it. For all the ways he let Sirius down. For all the ways Sirius let him down. For not seeing it until it was too late, and his friends were dead. For the fights. And the fucks. And the love. Oh, the love. 

*  
  
Molly takes in Remus’s haggard appearance when he arrives to pick up Harry the next day. She shakes her head. Her eyes don’t leave the new scars that stretch across Remus’s throat in a panicked swipe to remove a voice before it can howl out all the misery that is contained within. 

“Remus...” She is soft. He hates it. Remembers why he avoids people around full moons. Why he avoids people in general. Except, except... 

Harry comes barreling into the Burrow. His face is bright with happiness and flushed from running in the garden. He barges into Remus’s legs and Remus staggers backwards with a grunt. Clutches the child to him in a desperate embrace. Oh. Oh. 

Later that night, the adults have tea together. Arthur is home. Remus’s hands shake as he takes sip after sip. His bones feel heavy, his skin still feels like it is rising and falling and shaping into something monstrous. He is not himself, he is never himself. He used to have someone to remind him who he was... 

“Remus...” Arthur reaches across the table. “Why don’t you let Harry stay another night?” 

Remus can see the boy snuggled beneath a blanket with Ron. There is a picture book between them and their eyelids are drooping in big, comical blinks. _He's my best friend, Remy_ , Harry had said as he'd introduced Ron. The young pair of boys had held hands and Ron looked deliriously excited to have a person of his own. 

“Why don’t _you_ stay tonight, my dear?” Molly adds.  
  
He looks down at his tea. Wishes desperately that his best friend was here, to run a hand down his back and bite his neck and work out the vestiges of energy that brim beneath the fingertips and toes of a body so recently transformed. 

“If Harry wants to stay, that would be lovely Molly. But I will return home,” he says blandly. 

Harry is overjoyed at the prospect of one more night, though he checks and checks and checks with Remus. _Are you sure? You sure Rem? You sure?_ And Remus reassures him twice over that he is sure, that he wants Harry to have fun, that tomorrow they will go home and no, the house won’t be lonely and neither will Remus. 

Arthur drops a heavy hand on Remus’s shoulder when he leaves. For a man so good at pretending to be bumbling, so capable of slipping into the background, it should be unsurprising just how much he sees. Remus is still startled. 

“Don’t do...” Arthur stops himself. Steps back and smiles sadly. “See you tomorrow, Remus.” 

*

Remus apparates directly to the entrance of a club hidden in the north of England. The bouncer tips his head as Remus drops a couple of sickles into his hand and swipes the vial out of his palm.

Inside, the walls are black and bodies press against each other. Music blasts so loudly that it shudders the shattered-and-restored bones of all who enter. It is for creatures of dark. Of night. Of pain.  
  
He never would have known about this place, if it wasn’t for the war and the missions that Dumbledore insisted he take on. Where pack was made of fear. And fear turned to lust and hatred and a toxic imitation of love. And these sick and scared people created places where they could be sick and scared together, occasionally. Where they could turn to each other as human bodies, where they could swallow potions that shut the world off for a blissful moment before they were flung back into the wilderness of animals. It is an underworld nobody wants to talk about. An underworld he had been sent into alone, with shaking knees and a schoolboy stammer. 

Remus had been innocent, once. Had been a boy who collected books like friends and ate chocolate by the handful and kissed sweetly. Yes, there had been darkness. Loneliness and _so much pain_ but... war. War was different. 

In the middle, Sirius had told Remus that _he’d changed_. Yelled it, really. Another night, another argument, another angry fuck with skin too tight and the moon too fresh. 

Remus had known he was different. Had known that his soft edges were becoming sharp and hard. Sweaters and laughter and gentle touches had been replaced by biting teeth and armour and dark, wry humour and scars – more than ever before – more than he could explain away. He let himself become the weapon he needed to be. 

Sirius hadn’t changed. _At least,_ Remus thinks as he takes a hit in one quick gulp and lets the green-gold magic seep into his body, feels the pulse of the music and the eyes that follow him hungrily around the room... _at least not until it was too late to change back._ Perhaps it had always lurked in Sirius, like the wolf in Remus. Perhaps Remus had been blind. 

But oh, he had been so bright and beautiful and daring. Sirius had glowed during the war, him and James both. Reckless and stunning. The makings of legend. And they wore it with a humility so unexpected, even as Remus and Peter had lurked in the shadows they cast. 

There was darkness. Sirius would come home with blood on his hands. Or they would be separated in battle, frantic and alone. Friends would die. Friends would nearly die. Sirius laughed a lot those days. He cried a lot too. 

“I’m scared for him,” James had confessed, one late night when Remus couldn’t stand the waiting. “He’s too good at this.”

“Someone has to be a hero,” Remus had replied, and James had looked at him and looked and looked. 

That night, that argument, when Sirius had come home with blood in his mouth and a curse on his lips and the names of dead friends and enemies-who-had-once-been-friends, Remus remembers how Sirius spat out _you’ve changed_ and how they bit and fucked and Sirius had cried. 

“I need you,” Sirius had said. “I need you to stay soft and human. Don’t let me forget.”

Remus had gasped promises he couldn’t keep, stuttered into an orgasm that brought tears to his eyes, knowing he had already betrayed him. 

Now, he does the same. Lets a werewolf who has dark hair that curls behind his ears and a wicked smile lead him to the bathroom. And lets them fuck. And lets his tired bones settle and rearrange and settle again. 

*

This time, Molly drops Harry at home. She surveys each room with a small smile, her hand in Harry’s little one as he leads her around proudly. It is not the Burrow, none of the bustling energy and character. But it is gentle. It is soft. 

Remus watches them. His heart beats beneath the sweater he has thrown on. The wolf has receded to the part of Remus it likes to lurk in while it waits for the moon to make its cycle once more. 

When Molly eventually extracts herself and leaves with a gentle touch to the scar on Remus’s cheek, he and Harry sit in front of the fire. Harry clambers onto Remus’s lap and looks at the pictures in the book they are reading. He traces each face that peers out from beneath the word _family_ contemplatively.

“Remy,” Harry says. “I like the Weasleys...”  
  
Remus hums and turns the page.  
  
“... And Ron is my best friend. And the twins are silly. And Molly said to call her Aunty Molly. And Uncle Arthur is funny...” The boy pauses for a second. Then he twists to look at Remus in the face. “But you’re keeping me?” 

Remus looks down at Harry. Feels his world shake and settle once more. Hears Sirius spit _you’ve changed._ Lets the comedown flow over him and all the knots that the wolf tried to untangle with its claws come loose. 

“Oh yes Harry,” he says fiercely. “We are pack.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooft, what a chapter. Don't worry, we're getting there. Major developments up next...


	5. chapter five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: discussion of child abuse.

All I had was you and all you had was me  
There was no tomorrows  
We'd packed away our sorrows  
And we saved them for a rainy day

\- Tom Waits, _Martha_

Strangely, life settles.

Remus has never been one to hope for a quiet existence – has never had time to hope for any kind of future, if he’s honest – but somehow it rests gently in his chest. He feels... not happy, but content. He knows what to expect. 

Every morning, Harry wakes as the sun does. Remus can hear the child stretch and yawn. He knocks on the bedroom door and helps him get dressed. Or sometimes they don’t, instead wandering to the kitchen in their pyjamas. Harry’s little dressing gown flutters behind him like a cape as he jumps down each step. 

He makes honey on toast for Harry. Or porridge. Or yoghurt. Harry learns to ask for what he wants, and it makes Remus glow every time he says _pancakes please_ in a small voice. He carefully arranges chocolate chips in the batter, tapping them with his wand so they dance around on the pancake. It makes Harry giggle every time. 

They spend their morning in the garden. It’s starting to take shape, again. Seeds are dug into the soil and bees buzz around happily. Harry gets stung by one and doesn’t cry. He says _sorry_ to the poor thing. Remus thinks of James and Lily... their incredible empathy for creatures capable of pain. How James would visit him in the hospital wing and say, _not your fault mate_ even as he hastily healed the scratches on his arm. It doesn’t hurt as much, to remember them. Not when Harry is there. 

Occasionally, Neris walks past. She offers tips on pruning and planting. _The soil round here is tough,_ she says. _But I think you’re a match._ As a thank you, Remus makes her remedies to soothe her aching joints. She bakes them biscuits in return. It becomes a trade that makes Harry very happy. 

When the weather is good, they go into town. They start to recognise more people. There is Gemma, of course. She flirts shamelessly with Remus, even as he stammers like he is sixteen. Then there is Sally, from the sweetshop. Old Julian, from the charity shop. And Tommy, from the pub. Harry likes Tommy best, because he supplies the mushy peas. 

Harry joins a group of Muggle children at the park. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday they play together. Remus sits and watches him, smoking a cigarette. He thinks about friends, how tentative and important they are. How they can save lives and break them. Harry looks ecstatically happy to be jumping off equipment with other children and collecting bruises like they’re a trophy of play well done. _He’ll be good at Quidditch,_ Remus thinks wryly. 

Every month, Harry spends a night at the Weasleys as Remus tears into his own flesh and lets his blood drip onto stained floors.Harry is good at not being too concerned, but Remus knows the boy watches him carefully afterwards. 

Sometimes, Remus has a night off to visit a dark club and let desperate fingers dig bruises into his hips and the haze of heady potions take away the world, for a while. But the next morning he always returns, and the smile on Harry’s face repairs some of the clawed pieces inside of him.

“Am I doing this right?” Remus asks Molly Weasley one morning, when the early sun is casting a glow over her back garden and he can hear childish giggling in the adjacent room. Remus knows he’s still coming down from whatever he took last night, knows he’s not a perfect mother or father like Molly and Arthur Weasley. He is young and tired and _trying._

Molly takes a sip of her tea. “None of us know if we’re doing it right, Remus,” she says. “All we know is that Harry is safe. And he’s happy. And he loves you.”  
  
Remus looks away. He wants to say _I love him too,_ but he doesn’t know how to speak the words anymore. And then the conversation is dropped as Arthur Weasley runs in shouting about winning a Daily Prophet competition. All the children clamber into the kitchen in an uproar, no pretence of sleep as they bounce about in excitement. 

“Holiday, holiday, holiday!” They clap together as a group, and Harry claps along with them – excited for his friends and not the least bit jealous. Remus is so fucking proud of him. 

When Ron shows Harry the picture of their family in the paper the following month, Harry looks up at him, stunned. _Ron, you’re famous_ , he breathes and Remus laughs and laughs and laughs until he chokes and Molly Weasley has to thump him on the back. The smirk at the corner of her mouth gives her away, though. 

*

That’s not to say they don’t have bad times. Harry is a child like any other. He wants to understand the edges of his world, explore where he’s been told not to and look into the face of the adult in charge with a _well, what are you going to do about it then?_

Remus has been surprised by how quiet and calm Harry is. He hasn’t had an easy start to life, but he seems to take _yes_ and _no_ and _stop_ with grace. But now they know each other, and Remus can feel frustration well up in Harry. He knows he is finally being tested. 

The first time Harry throws a tantrum, it is over something so simple. It’s bedtime and Remus wants Harry to brush his teeth.

“It’s important Harry,” Remus pleads to the stubborn child. “We do this every night.”  
  
Harry crosses his arms. He stamps his feet. He cries. Remus tries not to get angry. It’s _so stupid_ and he’s tired and he wants to go to bed too. After nearly an hour of negotiation, pleading and not a single second of tooth-brushing, Remus gives up and puts Harry to bed. He doesn’t read Harry a story. Simply tucks him in quietly and leaves the room. Later that night, Remus hears his door creak open and Harry crawls into bed. His breath is minty and he says _sorry._ Remus hugs him. 

It continues. In town, Harry darts away from Remus suddenly. He is nearly hit by a cyclist, and Remus chases after the boy. “Don’t do that!” He yells, breathless. He is scared, shaking. Harry watches him. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles. 

Remus takes another breath. “Merlin, Harry. Sorry I yelled, but you scared the pixies out of me. Don’t do that again, please.” 

Then dinner is too hot. Or too cold. Remus jokingly calls Harry goldilocks and the child screams “I’m not!” in a huge angry voice before he stomps away. He refuses to put shoes on. Or coats. He hides in the woods until Remus sets up a barrier ward to keep him within the boundary of their back garden. He hasn’t had to do that before, Harry always knew where he was and wasn’t allowed. Remus doesn’t like it, it feels too much like a cage.

The last straw comes as they are cleaning up dinner. They’d always done this together, the Muggle way. It soothes Remus to wash the plates by hand. Harry likes to play with the suds and Remus will blow them into shapes that jump in the air. Tonight though, Harry is in a mood. 

He grumbles as Remus hands him a small plate to dry. “Don’t want to, Remy,” he mutters angrily. It has been a long day and the child must be tired, but Remus wants him to learn the value of chores. 

“C’mon Harry,” Remus replies with false cheer. “Just a couple of plates and then off to bed.”  
  
“Don’t want to go to bed. I want to play.” He slams the plate onto the counter. Remus winces.

“We can play tomorrow, Harry,” he says, handing the boy another plate. “We’ll go to the park, you like the park don’t you?”

Then Harry screams, “ _No!”_ His voice is filled with anger and he throws the plate on the ground at Remus’s feet. It shatters between them, and the sound is violent and stark against the quiet of the kitchen and the gentle suds that well up from the sink. 

“Harry!” Remus finally yells. Not out of anger, but shock. The shards of ceramic are scattered all over the kitchen floor. Remus frantically scans Harry up and down to make sure no jagged pieces have hit him. He moves towards him. “Are you oka-” 

But Harry flinches back, defensive. Tears burst from his eyes. Remus is astounded at the fear he sees in them. At how small and scared Harry looks. _Is this what it’s been about?_ Remus thinks. _Does he not know?_ Harry scrambles away to his room without a word. Remus takes a deep breath and follows him. 

The small, dark-haired boy is curled up on his bed. His breath is coming in huge, gasping sobs. It is pitiful and makes Remus ache. He perches on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“Harry,” Remus says gently. He pauses. “Harry, I want you to know that no matter what you do, I will never, _ever_ hit you.”  
  
Harry turns around to face him. He is streaked with tears and snot. Remus wants to _kill_ the Dursleys in a sudden, murderous rage. He takes another breath. He reaches a hand out tentatively and Harry leans into it. Remus strokes his hair. 

“We don’t hit in this house. We don’t touch anyone in anger. We don’t touch anyone if they don’t want to be touched.” 

The child shudders and Remus lies down next to him properly. Harry curls against his chest and his sobs die down. “We can feel angry, or frustrated or sad. But we talk about it. We say _why_ , okay? We don’t hurt each other.”

“I’m sorry for throwing, Remy,” Harry says. His voice hitches, he still sounds scared. “I didn’t want to hurt... I didn’t _mean_ to... ”

“I know Harry,” Remus reassures him. “Sometimes our emotions want to explode. But when they do, I want you to talk to me, okay? And we can go outside and kick a ball or we can run in the woods or draw or play loud music, or... or we can go and yell at the trees, not that they deserve it. Sometimes yelling can help, though.”  
  
Harry giggles.

“And then we’ll go back and finish what we were doing. Okay?”  
  
Harry nods against him. “Okay.” 

With a groan, Remus gets off the bed. He feels the enormity of the responsibility he has, now. Not just to feed and clothe Harry, but to help him be safe and kind and grow into a good man. To guide and nurture. Remus doesn't know how a fuck-up like him will do it. But he's trying. _Merlin_ he's trying.  
  
Together, they go back downstairs. Harry and Remus pick up each shard by hand – carefully – because if you’re going to break something you are going to fix it, too. They finish washing the dishes. They go to bed. And as Remus is tucking Harry in for the night, Harry reaches up and says “I love you,” and Remus feels as shattered as a ceramic plate on the kitchen floor. 

*

Halloween arrives. Remus spends the night smoking cigarette after cigarette until his mouth and fingers and hands and _everything_ smell of ash. The Potter home had been burnt to a crisp from the force of the Killing Curse. Remus can _taste_ it. Can taste the anger.

He watches Harry sleep, that night. The scar is stark on his forehead, a white line that splits and multiplies through dark skin. It moves every time Harry breathes or frowns or smiles. Like a curse moving through the air. 

The other day, Harry had asked Remus if he had parents. “Amelia said that everyone has them,” he’d enquired innocently. Remus had known the question would come, but he didn’t expect... not so _soon._

“Oh yes Harry,” Remus had replied. “You had parents. And they loved you very much. But they died. Do you know what that means?”  
  
And Harry did, because of books. And because he had friends who talked about such things, as children do. Harry had cried as Remus held him and then he’d looked at Remus and said, “I have you now,” as if that was enough. It wasn't. It isn't. Remus knows he is an incredibly poor substitute for James and Lily Potter. 

Now he thinks, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ desperately at a sleeping Harry because he can't say it, only hope that it is half the amount of love that his parents had for him. Hopes that it will help Harry dream well, even through the most terrible night.

Eventually, Remus goes back outside. He smokes more. He does not look at the stars.

Remus bitterly knows love cannot cure all. Because if love was enough, James and Lily would be alive and desperately happy. Harry would be safe and free of scars. Peter would be badly singing nursery rhymes. And Remus... 

If love was enough, Sirius Black would not have killed them. He would have loved them enough. Remus would have loved Sirius enough. _But,_ he thinks angrily as he remembers harmless pranks-turned attempted murders and angry fucks and cold arguments. _Sirius was always very good at hurting the people he loved._

*

Harry and Remus decide one morning to walk to the markets. They slip on their coats, wrap scarves around their necks and Harry pulls on the giant red boots that Old Julian had saved especially for him. 

Hand in hand, they trudge up to the shops. They wave at Neris, who is sitting on her porch. She smiles in return, but seems distracted by the radio next to her. Remus can’t hear what is being said, but she looks worried. 

_Perhaps some bad Muggle news_ , Remus thinks. He has kept away from Wizard newspapers since he and Harry moved to the village. He is too afraid that he will see Harry’s name pop up and the anonymity of their small world will be shattered. If there is something to report, he knows Dumbledore will tell him.

When they get to the high street, it is strangely empty. Remus feels something prickle at the back of his neck. He pulls Harry closer to him. There are no mothers pushing prams or laughing groups of gossiping locals. Instead people are hurrying to their next location or whispering in hushed tones. 

“Bad stuff,” someone mumbles to their friend as Harry and Remus walk past. “Serious...” 

They’re gone before Remus can hear more. If he hadn’t been so comfortable in the village and in desperate need of food, Remus would have turned back home. Instead, he and Harry do their shopping quietly – clearly affected by the mood.  
  
Gemma isn’t at the cash register, but the man who rings them up is distracted as well.

“It seems quiet around here,” Remus says to try and spark conversation. The man just grunts in response. They leave the store quickly.

Outside, a group of smoking teenagers are clumped together. They’re muttering, half in excitement and half in anxiety. One boy is telling what seems to be a particularly gruesome story and a girl hits him. “That’s _so_ not funny!” 

“Oi!” Remus says before he thinks. He shields Harry behind him, who is looking up at Remus worriedly. “Can any of you lot tell us what’s going on?” 

The girl looks from Harry to him and back again. “Haven’t you heard?” She takes a drag of her cigarette. Blows out smoke. “That crazy bloke from a couple of years back... the one who bombed all those people in London? He’s escaped from prison. What a fucking riot. Got half of England hunting him down.” 

Remus goes hot. Then cold. Then hot again. He drops all the groceries on the ground, yoghurt splatters and fruit rolls away. Harry lets out a yelp. He clutches Remus.  
  
“Watch it mate!” The girl yells.

Remus picks up Harry. He runs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well. A new development is in town. As always, comments are very much appreciated.


	6. chapter six

He operates on a low frequency  
To take down the pillars of our society   
Walking out of sadness, walking out of grief   
He's walking out of badness and walking like a thief

\- Johnny Flynn, _Raising the Dead_

Remus apparates directly into his living room with a violent pop. It looks obscenely normal. Harry’s drawings are still scattered on the floor and blankets thrown on the velvet sofa. The fire is on, the wood collapses in a giant _crack_ and ash flies up the chimney. 

Harry screams, clutching his ears. 

“I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_!” Remus mutters as he holds the boy close to his chest. “It’s okay, fuck Harry, sorry.” 

He paces around the room, Harry in his arms. His cries soften as Remus shushes him. He shouldn’t have apparated with a child so young – too dangerous, too painful for them – but he had to get out of there. Had to get home – they were too exposed, too... fuck. 

Remus stops. The wards are pulsing in alarm. He can feel the magic of them in his arms, vibrating up his chest to choke him. He puts Harry down on the couch and crouches in front of him. 

“I need you to stay here, okay? This is important, I need you to stay.” 

Harry nods. He hugs a blanket to himself and cries silently. Remus kisses the top of his head, casts a shaky protego around him and stalks outside the house. His wand hums in his hand. He hasn’t felt like this in so long – adrenaline fired and desperate and _scared_ – but he remembers how it simmers in his body.

The wards in the backyard are glowing red. They swell angrily. Remus can see a person trapped inside. Someone has tried to _get into their home_ and Remus won’t have it, he won’t allow it. Not now, not ever.   
  
He makes a cut on the palm of his hand and holds it to the shimmering barrier. Blood drips. The wards pulse again and again and... a body falls through. Lands with a thud on the garden floor. 

Alastor Moody looks up at him. He’s lost an eye since he was last here – is the fight still on? Has Remus been so blissfully unaware? Of course he has, because Sirius Black. _Sirius fucking Black_ is escaped. Moody’s new eye swivels around madly. It fixes on Remus. The man smiles, savage and deranged.

“Added a couple of darker wards since I was here last, hey boy?” 

*

“Who knows where we are?” Remus says, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. 

Harry is settled at the table. He’s scooping up ice cream with his fingers. His face is still teary but not as panicked. Moody watches in fascination as chocolate drips onto the table in front of the boy. He looks like wants to laugh. Instead, he turns to Remus. 

“Didn’t I tell you? I told you. Constant vigilance. Too many people.” 

Remus slams his hand down on the table. Harry looks startled, so Remus takes a deep breath. _When you feel your emotions ready to explode, Harry..._

“There’s me and you,” Remus continues. He had checked Moody with every diagnostic scan he could think of. Had questioned him on things only Moody would know. Secret missions Remus had been responsible for. Had given him potions to reveal polyjuice and veritaserum to confess his true name. He was Alastor Moody. “There is Dumbledore. Minerva McGonagall. And Molly Weasley. They are the only people who have set foot in this house.” 

“Neighbours?” Alastor leans back on his chair. He swings carelessly.   
  
“They walk past, but no one has been in. Not a single person has been through the wards. We’re basically unplottable. Even if the townspeople were asked where we lived, any directions they gave would be confunded. End Lane. That’s all they know. And they couldn’t tell anyone where that is if they _tried._ ” 

“Neris knows,” Harry pipes up. 

Moody’s eye swivels to him. Then back to Remus. “Neris?”   
  
“She’s an elderly neighbour. Yes, maybe she has seen through the wards enough times. She could probably give the most detailed description of our house and where it is. She walks past a few times a week. They all know our names though. We talk to them. We... They...” 

“Sloppy, Remus. Sloppy.” 

“Don’t you think I...” Remus runs a hand through his hair. “I know, okay. I know. But how could we _expect..._ ” 

Moody grunts. The front legs of his chair slam back on the floor with a solid _thud._ Remus leans his palms down on the table and closes his eyes. He breathes. He breathes again. 

“So you weren’t expecting him.” 

Remus looks up at Moody, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll come right out and say it. You’re not working with Black, are you?”

Remus staggers away from the table. His back hits the sink. It bruises his spine in a sharp ache. Is this what they think of him? Is that what Dumbledore has sent Moody to check? That he’s not harbouring a criminal... that he’s not playing house with the man that killed Remus’s friends and Remus himself, for a long time.

“After all this?” He breathes. “You think that after everything I have done for the Order, everything I have _done_! And everything that _he has done_ to destroy my life, you still think that I would work with him?”   
  
“We all know what he was to you, Lupin.” 

The worst thing is that Moody isn’t even accusing Remus. His tone may not be gentle, but it isn’t angry. Facts. Hard facts. Remus grits his teeth. He will be defined by this forever. His love will be twisted and used to make him suspicious, forever. Just like the wolf. Another mark against his name. He is so, so tired. 

“I will never, _ever_ let any harm come to Harry. Even if I have to...” He looks at Harry. The child’s eyes are large, they’re flicking back and forth between Remus and Moody like he’s watching a close Quidditch match. _Even if I have to kill the man I loved._   
  
Moody sighs. “Good to know.”   
  
* 

Remus gives Moody his bed and sleeps with Harry instead. Harry curls up against his chest and shivers. Remus piles more blankets onto him. 

“Harry, today was scary. And you’re allowed to be afraid,” he says into the dark of the night. The wards have doubled, tripled in strength. Moody is assigned to the house and they have to stay within the boundaries of it. Remus is glad, for once, to be away from the hunt. It hurts too much. “I’m afraid too. But we will protect each other. You and me. In it together.” 

Harry nods. Remus can feel tears soaking his shirt. He brushes Harry’s hair with his fingers, traces his scar and hums.   
  
“Why does the scary man want us?” Harry asks eventually. Remus had told Harry, gently, about Sirius Black. Had sat on the sofa and blankly narrated the story like he was an outsider reading a particularly gruesome tale. 

He hasn’t told Harry that the mass murderer is his godfather. Only that he worked for bad people and killed Remus’s friends – his _family._ And that Harry and Remus may be in danger. He hasn’t mentioned Harry’s parents. Hasn’t mentioned what Sirius... what he was to him.

“We don’t know what he wants, Harry. But you’re... _we’re_ important to him. So we’re going to keep quiet and safe until he’s caught, okay? We’ll stay in the house.” 

Harry lets out a small sob. “But... miss Neris. And Amelia. And Tommy.”

“We’ll see them again, Harry. When it’s safe.” 

He doesn’t say _I promise_. He can’t make the words form in his mouth. He doesn’t know, anymore. Too many things have been taken away from him and he can’t... he can’t let Harry be one of them. This life, so tentative and new. It’s the closest he’s felt to settled, since... since. 

Harry falls into a restless sleep. Remus lies awake and listens to him breathe.

*

It’s tense, in their tiny house on End Land. Moody stomps around, walking the perimeter. He leaves in the morning and returns at night. Harry is fascinated by the man with a wooden leg and magic eye. He calls him a _pirate._ Remus tells him it’s rude, but it seems to amuse the Auror. 

Moody supplies food. Harry and Remus bake. They draw. They create stories. Remus shows Harry small pieces of magic. Frivolous. It reminds him that there can still be good created with a wand. More than blood wards, protection and war. 

Harry is incredibly resilient. He cries before he takes his nap, but Remus sits with him and hums mindless tunes. He understands the way fear can burst from a body. 

One evening when Moody is back from patrol, the two of them drink whiskey at the kitchen table in silence. 

“You’re good at the kid thing,” Moody says. “Didn’t expect that.” 

Remus sighs. He has sheltered Harry, fed him, given him a home and a scarred version of love. But he has not been able to protect Harry from his greatest mistake. “Not good enough,” he replies. 

*

For once, Remus lets himself remember the past. It has been so long since he has uttered the name Sirius Black that the shape of it is foreign in his mouth. The memories, so carefully compressed like coal, are starting to crumble back into existence. 

He smokes cigarette after cigarette out open windows. He doesn’t dare step foot outside and it makes him angry. Anxious. He can feel the wolf pacing around his body like a caged animal, desperate to be free. Even now, Sirius can control his life.

Remus will never love anyone like he had loved Sirius. For seven years, his world shaped itself around Sirius Black. He is the beginning and end of all Remus’s experiences – blissfully good and unspeakably bad. His laughter still echoes in lonely nights when Remus finds another warm body to fill his own. His anger still stings. Sirius was so, _so_ alive. 

The betrayal of it all had perhaps been so shocking in its abruptness because there was simply nothing Remus could pour into the empty mould left behind. Remus found, suddenly, that he could no longer be happy or unhappy. The person that had defined those emotions – who had created plenty of them – didn’t exist anymore. Perhaps had never existed, in the end. 

Their last argument had been silent. Polite, like two distant strangers. Remus had packed his meagre belongings. He’d already had an apartment ready up north that he would use as a base for his last mission. Remus and Sirius’s house was no longer a home, instead an empty vessel where two angry people occasionally met. 

They had looked at each other for a long time. Sirius had seemed tired. There was no hint of the violence that was to come. Remus remembers wanting to cry, for Sirius to hold him and tell him that it would all be okay. Instead, he’d said nothing. How do you tell the person you love in the middle of a war that you don’t want to fight anymore? That you’re exhausted, when you know they are too. That it hurts too much, when you know they are hurting too. That you simply don’t like it anymore. 

War had drained Remus. He was half man, half wolf. And Sirius hated him for it. All the Marauders had looked at him differently. But Sirius had been two extremes too. Half violently angry – every conversation bitingly sour and every fuck bruised. And the other half aristocratically cold. A perfect Black. Too perfect, Remus now knows. 

He feels the smoke of his cigarette curl in his mouth. He lets it fill his chest and breathes the rest out into the empty, cold night. Sometimes, he thinks he can still smell Sirius in the air – the Sirius he likes to remember best – wet, dog-nose, tobacco, teenage boy and a grinning spark of danger. Just a spark... waiting to be lit.   
  
*

The Patronus lands in the kitchen with a brilliant blaze of power. Moody and Remus shield their eyes from where they sit at the table – nursing their whiskey and pointedly not talking about all the people who have died. 

_Sirius Black is at Hogwarts,_ it says in Dumbledore’s voice. _Alastor, we need you here._

Moody grumbles as he gets up. He gives Remus a long look. His new eye swivels from Remus’s clenched hand to the blank, straight set of his mouth. He apparates away without a word. 

Remus takes a sip of his whiskey. And another. And another. 

*

When Dumbledore appears at the front door, it feels like an omen. Moody is next to him. His wooden leg thumps on the ground as they walk up the path. The pair are strangely somber. It’s an echo of war, when they found Remus covered in his own sick. Empty, _empty_ of everything. 

Harry curls his arms around one of Remus’s legs and peeks out at the two men. His weight keeps Remus on the ground. Otherwise, he would drift helplessly away. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Remus says. 

“No,” Dumbledore replies. His eyes are calm behind his half-moon glasses. Time is floating, ephemeral between them. Remus is scared to discover who he will be when it starts once more _._ “He’s innocent.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all happening now. Buckle up!


	7. chapter seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: unintentional self harm.

Keep your head up, hold your head up  
Even though it's a cruel world  
Count your blessings, you won't need them  
When you're gone

\- Active Child, _Cruel World_

The whole sordid tale spills out on the kitchen table. Remus can feel each word circle the room, the agony of the past alive. The mistakes. Blame, thick enough to choke on. He watches Dumbledore and Moody blankly. His thumb circles the edge of his favourite teacup. It has a chip, near the handle. If he presses hard enough, it will catch his skin.

“You promised me,” Remus aches. Harry is seated next to him. He squirms, uncomfortable. But Remus won’t send the boy away. _When you are older, Harry. When you are older you deserve to remember this part of your life._

Dumbledore says nothing. His face is calm, passive. Remus can feel the wolf ricochet around his body. His insides twist. “I was never informed of the switch,” Dumbledore replies. “If I had been, I can assure you...”

“I begged you,” Remus interrupts. His thumb continues to circle around the edge of the teacup. The chip, still exposed. “I asked if you were sure. You promised me.” 

“Now boy,” Moody walks around the kitchen. He can’t sit still. Too much of an Auror and not one particularly good at delivering bad news. “We did the best we could with the information we had. All evidence pointed towards Sirius. We all thought he was the Secret Keeper...”  
  
“No,” Remus breathes. And breathes. “I was last to know, I was never _in on any secrets_...” 

Dumbledore is gentle. “You thought he was the traitor too.”

Remus’s thumb presses too hard on the chip and his skin splits. Sharp, sudden pain. Harry makes a small noise of concern. Remus watches as blood leaks from the cut in thick, fat drops. Obscenely red. He wipes it away. 

Dumbledore and Moody leave soon after with a quiet, _we’ll keep you updated_. Remus sits there, empty. His tea goes cold. His world rearranges itself once more. Broken pieces lay shattered inside him. Must he get on his hands and knees and pick them up again? Assemble them in the shape of a man, make his mouth move and his eyes blink? Maybe now is the time he can finally leave them destroyed on the floor. 

Instead, Harry clambers up to sit in Remus’s lap. He is careful as he buries his face in the side of Remus’s neck. They hug for a long time, just like that. A monster and a child, both chipped. Both trying not to press too hard where it hurts. 

*

The full moon is two days later. It’s a bad one. 

Remus has been angry at Sirius for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with the excess that spills out of him. With the guilt that replaces it. It’s so unfair, the whole disgusting story of it. It’s so unfair it makes Remus want to howl at the moon until his voice gives out. 

The wolf knows what to do. He carves long, thick lines into Remus’s face. His legs are chewed to the bone. His torso broken, bloody, scratched and twisted. The scars on his body become evidence of a crime scene. 

_Here_ , Remus wants to point at the gaping wound in his side, _this is where my dead friends are. And here is their betrayer. And here is the person I have betrayed. And here are all the people who touched me when he was gone. And here is when I stopped loving him_. _And here is where I never could._..

When he apparates to Molly and Arthur’s home, he collapses. Molly gasps and catches him. Harry bursts into tears.  
  
“It’s okay,” Remus tries to say. “It’s okay.” 

Instead, his voice is hoarse and comes out like a pained groan. Molly carries him upstairs. She puts him to bed. She smooths his hair. She slathers potions onto each cut and hums as she does. Remus tries not to cry. He blinks up at the ceiling. 

“Molly,” he says eventually. Her hands pause for a moment. Remus turns to look at her. “I need to see him, don’t I?” 

He needs to. But he doesn’t _want_ to. It’s a confession whispered in the dark. On a sick bed. Remus has said his goodbyes. He’s grieved. He’s drank and fucked and coped. And now the past is back. He’d thought he had buried it, like every other tragedy in his life. But Remus should have known better. The past isn’t fixed and forgotten. It’s a cycle that rises and falls just like the moon. And once you’ve been bitten, it can break you just as easily. 

“Oh Remus,” Molly replies. He knows it’s a yes. 

*

The halls of the Ministry of Magic are cold. When Remus exhales, he can see his frozen breath. Last time Remus had been here, he was getting his registration number. He’d gone alone, pushed fresh out of school into a world that didn’t want him. Sirius had been furious. Now he feels the tattoo itch on the inside of his elbow – an echo of pain. 

“It’s this way,” Arthur Weasley says. He glances at Remus. His eyes follow the fresh scars. But Remus remains silent. He lets the black-tiled walls hug him in an icy embrace as he limps forward. They see nobody. They don’t speak.  
  
Eventually they arrive at a door with two guards. 

“Do you want me to...?” Arthur asks.  
  
Remus shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Thank you, Arthur.” 

The door opens and Remus steps through. It’s pure blackness. The long corridor is filled with prison cells. Each bar hums with sharp magic. Remus hears his steps tap, tap tap on the floor as he looks at the pitiful faces cut from their source of power. Some, he knows, will be innocent. Others will be Death Eaters. It is near impossible to tell the difference, these days. 

He reaches the cell he is looking for. In the far corner, a young man is curled up. His clothes are baggy, filled with holes. His tears are quiet. What has become of them, the Marauders? That they would end like this, stripped bare, when they started so blissfully unaware of their own happiness. It’s cruel. 

Remus wraps a hand around a prison cell bar but hisses as it stings his palm. The man looks up. Oh. 

Same sandy hair. Same wide eyes. But now his round cheeks are stained red with desperation. He is young and scared. He is empty and angry. Remus chokes out the words...

“Hello Peter.”

*

Remus and Peter had spent a lot of time together at school. Softly hopeless. Unknowingly brilliant. Oh, Peter had been the most human of them all. Where James and Sirius were loudly fierce, daring and beautiful, Remus and Peter had a shared acknowledgement that they were both the moon to James and Sirius’s shining sun. In the gentle moments, they would study together. Watch the mischief unfold delightedly. Laugh together. 

Now, Remus looks at Peter in the dark of his cell. The man is twisted, on his knees as he begs. The dark mark is obscene on his forearm. His hair falls across his sweaty forehead. His nose twitches, like a rat. 

“Please Remus, you must believe me my friend. Oh, my Moony, please.”

He shudders. “Don’t call me that.” 

“You know I couldn’t stand up to him Remus, you know, you _saw._ His followers, Remus. They would have killed me.” 

“Better to die then, Peter. I would have died for them.” Remus turns away. He feels sick rise in his throat. The black walls are oppressive around him, each bar of magic vibrates in agony. He blows out a breath.

Peter, _Peter,_ did this. Quiet Peter. The one who cried when Remus showed him his registration number. The one who hid chocolate frogs in his pockets when Remus had a bad moon. Who laughed so beautifully. Who waited for them at every pub night. He had betrayed James and Lily. He had killed them. He had nearly killed Harry. And he’d blamed it all on Sirius. How, _how..._  
  
Was this Peter, this dark one, of their own creation? Had Remus, Sirius and James teased him too much? Forgotten him too often? Let war ravage him in imperceptible ways? He had sought approval elsewhere. He had found it in death. In betrayal. 

“Tell me why, Peter.” 

The man cries. His sobs warp, echo and mix with the cries of other prisoners. He presses his face as close as he can to the bars and looks up at Remus. His eyes are the same, _the same._

“I was scared.” 

“Tell me!” Remus shouts. 

Peter flinches. “He had... _so much power_ , Remus. He gave it out like Honeydukes sweets. I wanted a bite, I wanted to feel...”  
  
“You wanted power. Dead friends for power you could never harness. Never control. You _weren’t capable_ , Peter. He could have given you all the power in the world but you couldn’t use it. Weak. _Weak...”_

Then Remus sees it. Peter’s face changes. Unrecognisable. Not young. Not soft. Tears gone. Sharp. Angry. His eyebrows pull in and his mouth clenches. His hands become gnarled. He is dark, dark magic. He is blood promises and snake tattoos. 

“Oh, not too weak to do it though, was I?” He snarls. Peter wraps both his hands around the bars of his cell. He doesn’t even flinch. “It was _so easy_ to be the spy. One word here, one word there. Breadcrumbs that led to the big, bad wolf. Who would have suspected poor little Peter Pettigrew?”  
  
Remus reels backwards. He hits the wall behind him. It doesn’t feel solid. 

“Even Sirius, oh Sirius. He thought his beloved werewolf had finally betrayed him. It’s in your nature, after all. And when he found it was me who killed them, _me_ who turned them all against you... you want to know what true power feels like, Remus?” 

Peter presses his face against the bars. They leave bright, red marks. Like claw marks. Like madness. “His face, in the street,” Peter laughs. “He was powerless and I was powerful Remus. For one, beautiful moment. I was powerful.” 

*

Remus and Harry return home. Molly has packed them a mountain of food. She kisses Harry on the cheek. _Take care of your Remy,_ she says to the boy. Harry nods seriously at her. 

Somehow, Remus lives. He gets up every morning and makes Harry breakfast. They go outside. The ground is frozen solid but they build snowmen with smiley faces that make Harry erupt with laughter. He catches snowflakes on his tongue as Remus watches. They make dinner together. They clean up plates. They go to bed and do it all over again. 

At night, Remus sits in the backyard. He smokes. He opens the latest letter that Dumbledore has sent him. _Sirius is doing well. The trial is scheduled soon. Peter has confessed. It won’t be long now..._

His hands tremble. He doesn’t dare feel hope. It’s a fire too small to nurture, too broken to repair. Instead he waits. 

*

The newspaper arrives with a flurry of owl wings, ferocious pecks and a solid thud as it drops onto the kitchen table. For a long time, Remus stares at it. It’s folded, the front page hidden. Harry is happily eating cereal opposite him. The round, coloured loops jump up and down in the bowl as he tries to catch them with his mouth. 

Remus reaches out a hand. It shakes as he opens the paper. 

There, in black and white, is Sirius Black. Alive. _Alive._ He looks... not old – none of them are old – but tired. Like the world has scraped him empty, just like it has for Remus. Lines wrinkle the corner of his eyes. His hair is long and unkempt. He’s still so fucking beautiful. 

“Who that?” Harry asks, his mouth full of sopping cereal. He’s never seen a picture of Sirius. 

“He’s your godfather, Harry,” Remus replies softly. “The one who the Aurors – the Wizard police – made a mistake about. Remember?”

Harry nods. He goes back to his cereal. 

Remus watches the picture. Watches Sirius. He’s in front of a crowd. He seems bewildered. Overwhelmed. None of the Black aristocracy. Just a young, scared man. Sirius's eyes gaze in front of him, grey and stormy. The photo makes it seem like he is searching the reader. Secrets, exposed. Remus desperately wants to catch his gaze. He can’t bear to. 

Instead, he moves his eyes to the headline. In thick black font it screams the same three words that have been on repeat since Dumbledore dropped them on his front step. _SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT._

For the first time, it is real. Sirius is free. 

*

There is a knock on the front door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I know. Another cliffhanger. A huge thank you to everyone who has left comments, they mean so much to me. I enjoy every exclamation mark and capslock yelling. You lot are incredible.


	8. chapter eight

Maybe I'm too young  
To keep good love from going wrong  
But tonight, you're on my mind so  
You never know  
\- Jeff Buckley, _Lover, You Should’ve Come Over_

Remus fell in love with Sirius when he was thirteen years old. He can remember the exact, ordinary moment. He was in Charms. Professor Flitwick had forcibly separated James and Sirius that year, thinking it would make a difference to their mischief. It hadn’t. Instead, their jokes spanned two tables and eventually the entire room. 

Next to him, James had been slumped at his desk. His glasses had slipped down his nose as he huffed out a breath in boredom. He and Sirius were brilliant, that was their problem. They mastered each spell while the rest of them still twisted the shape of Latin around their tongues. 

That day, James had used his spare time to create a flock of paper birds. With a flick of his wrist, he had launched them at the back of an equally-bored Sirius’s head. They pecked his ears and tangled in his hair. 

Sirius had turned around. Remus remembers the way fragmented light had caught his smooth, straight nose and halo of long, dark locks. He’d been laughing as he swatted at the birds, teeth white and pointed. It was a peek of the man he was to become. More than handsome. Dangerously beautiful. 

In a sharp, sudden realisation, Remus’s stomach had sunk. Swooped, like the birds around the room. Sirius’s eyes had slid to him. They’d looked at each other for a long moment. There was something foreign and tense inside Remus’s body, not the wolf but _worse._ So much joy-hope-love that it hurt.

Sirius’s eyes had bubbled with laughter. His lips had curled into a subtle half-smile in the corner. He had raised a single, elegant eyebrow at Remus. A question. When he got no reply, Sirius had winked. Turned away. And Remus was _gone._  
  
* 

Now, Sirius stands at Remus’s front door. It’s snowing, the night blustery. His hair is sodden, bedraggled around his shoulders. His eyes are dark and tired. He has lost his playfulness, his mischief. They are twenty four years old and the world has taken laughter from them both. 

“Moony,” he says. 

Remus flinches back. Sirius looks startled at the reaction. His voice. _His voice._ Remus has dreamed it so many times. Whispering dark, dirty promises in his ear. Shouting at him from across their flat. Saying, _I love you_ until Remus couldn’t bear to sleep from the fear of it. 

His dreams had captured none of the nuance. Sirius’s voice is rough. _From screaming in Azkaban, perhaps._ But it is deep and rich when he says Remus’s childhood nickname like that and... Merlin, it is painful. 

“Come in,” Remus replies hastily, stepping back into the warmth of his home. He feels... fuck. He feels completely out of his depth. As much as he’d _hoped_... he still can’t say Sirius’s name – can’t stand the way it would curl in the air. 

Sirius pauses and looks at him. Remus doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he focuses somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. Someone has given Sirius their old clothes. They’re loose around his shoulders, none of the fitted leather jackets or Rolling Stones tees he’d worn to piss off his family. He is skinny, gaunt. 

“Remus...” Sirius sounds wrecked. His voice trails away and he takes a hesitant step forward, closer to the house. 

“You are...” Remus fiddles with the sleeve of his sweater. “You are here to stay, aren’t you?” He hates that he is unsure. That he’s small and _scared._ Sirius is a living Boggart he can’t bear to banish. Instead he invites him in, politely, like they are strangers and not friends-pack-lovers-betrayers. 

When they would fight – at Hogwarts and out of it – their friends were always there to hold them together. Tentative strings that interwound them, pulling them close. Tying them back. 

Now there is no James to sling his arms around their shoulders and smirk through the awkwardness. No Lily to curl up against Remus in the library and tell him dirty jokes until he chuckled. No Peter to... no Peter. Instead it is emptiness and ghosts and all the unsaid things that lie in the valley between them. 

Sirius steps properly into the house. His second-hand boots leave wet snow on the hardwood floor. His chest rises and falls. He is here, in the shoddy home Remus has carved out of the ruins of his life. He is here.  
  
“Yes. Yes I would very much like to stay.”  
  
* 

The kettle whistles on the hob. It’s an old Muggle one from the charity shop, not one of those fancy Wizard kettles that brew themselves exactly when you need a cuppa.   
  
“Do you want to talk about...” Remus starts to say as he pours the boiling water. He feels braver with his back to Sirius. Like he can pretend he’s talking to empty air. _Do you want to talk about it? Those years you were in prison, when I thought you were a traitor. Or the year you thought I was a traitor. Or our dead friends, or..._

“No,” Sirius interrupts. “It all still feels like a bad dream.”  
  
“Maybe Hogwarts was the dream,” Remus replies. He turns back around and hands Sirius his tea. Their fingers brush, for the briefest moment. It burns. He sits down at the table, his own hands clutched around his teacup. Sirius is opposite him. 

Outside, the snowstorm rages. It is dark, the only hint of light from the lamp and candles Remus lit with a wave of his wand. Sirius had watched the movement with the same intensity he used to plan pranks. 

He’d been given his wand back, after the trial. It’s the only belonging he has on him. All the rest, Remus knows, are sitting in the sealed and empty flat they had once lived. Or at Grimmauld Place. Or destroyed in the wreck of James and Lily’s home. Remus has never been to any of those places, has never wanted to see another relic of Sirius Black again. Now there is one in front of him. 

“Sometimes, in Azkaban, I thought that was true. That Hogwarts was a dream. That I’d been there for decades and gone mad with it,” Sirius takes a sip of his tea. He looks haunted. “Then I would transform into Padfoot and know it was real.”

“Padfoot did always have a way of simplifying things,” Remus says. 

He remembers, vividly, the moons they were together after the Prank. How the wolf took out its anger on Padfoot. How they nipped and bit and scratched and whimpered. How it was months before Padfoot submitted. How afterwards Sirius finally kissed Remus for the first time, fierce and angry in the early light of their dormitory. 

“Yes,” Sirius says simply. He seems to be remembering too. Then he looks up at Remus, whose eyes shift to a point behind Sirius’s head. “Dumbledore told me that you have Harry.” 

“I do.” Remus takes a sip of his tea.  
  
“I won’t be intruding, will I? I thought I could help. It can’t be easy, looking after him by yourself afte–” Sirius cuts his sentence short.

“Of course you can,” Remus replies. Of course, _of course_ he’s here for Harry. “You’re his godfather, after all.” 

*

Remus gives Sirius his bedroom. The man looks like he is going to fall over. How long has it been since he’s had a warm shower, a soft bed, a place that hasn’t had every ounce of happiness sucked out? 

“Thank you,” Sirius says awkwardly at the threshold of the bedroom. Young, brash Sirius had never been awkward. He had worn his emotions on his face. Had laughed joyously. Hated furiously. He has changed. Remus supposes he has too. “Where will you...?”  
  
“Oh, I’ll bunk in with Harry,” Remus replies. “He doesn’t mind. He’s a good kid.”  
  
“Yeah?” Sirius seems hungry for any information on the child. A man only just able to swallow hope for the future. “Dumbledore said he looks a lot like...” He stops, choked.

“James, yes.” Remus finishes. “James with Lily’s eyes.”   
  
There is a wave of grief. For the first time, Remus shares it with someone who _knows_. Who truly understands the hollow place where James and Lily should be. Their past, their loss. It is unimaginable to anybody but them. 

“Remus...” Sirius says eventually. He hasn’t uttered _Moony_ since the first time, when Remus flinched. “We’ll talk in the morning, yeah? And I’ll... I can meet Harry?” 

“Yeah,” Remus swallows. It’s all too much. They are strangers on the precipice. Known and unknown. Different and terrifyingly the same. Perhaps there are too many words to say and not enough time. Perhaps they have been broken too often. “Yeah okay.” 

*

Instead of sleep, Remus goes outside to smoke. He holds the letter Dumbledore sent this morning in one hand as the other drifts back and forth to his mouth, balancing the cigarette shakily between his fingers. He hasn’t had time to read it yet. Now he knows what it will say.

_Sirius has requested to stay with you and Harry. I have told him your location. I do hope that old wounds can now be put to rest._

He feels bitterly, bitterly angry. Has every moment in his life been perfectly orchestrated? Dumbledore, the conductor. He waves his wand and Remus is at Hogwarts. Then a soldier in war. Then alone. Then the guardian of his dead friends’ child. Now this. Fuck. 

Remus knew it would happen, of course he _knew_ that he and Sirius would be reunited. He had wanted it, in fact. Had hoped for it desperately as he bled out on the floor under the light of the moon. But now the reality is here and it is much too soon. 

He isn’t prepared to look at the past. To try and give it some meaning, a purpose. No. Remus has stored it so neatly. Has clambered away from it with bloody hands. Has managed to stand on two feet and run, to hold Harry as he goes, only to be thrown back to the ground again. 

He takes a drag of his cigarette. The smoke lingers in his throat. Remus blows it out in a breath. As he does, he whispers into the frozen night air like he is practicing the shape of the word so beautiful in his mouth...

“ _Sirius_.” 

*

Harry wakes early. The morning light streams from his window and gives his dark skin a soft, rich glow. His messy, black hair sticks in every direction, pressed against his pillow. He blinks slowly, yawns. Curls into Remus’s chest. 

“G’morning Remy,” he murmurs quietly. 

Remus _aches_. He loves this child. Desperately. Has cultivated this home to keep him curious and innocent and free. But now the time of just the two of them is over. Remus is afraid their quiet existence will disappear. And Harry will too, like all pure things Remus has loved. He’s so scared that he won’t be able to hold on. 

“Harry,” he says. “Last night we had a visitor.” 

Harry tilts his head to look at Remus. His eyes are a bright, vivid green. In the morning, when the light hits them just so, he can see Lily in the common room by the fire. The flecks of gold that would reflect off her irises as they studied together.

“Remember your godfather, Sirius? He’s come to stay with us.” 

“Is he scary?” Harry’s voice is quiet. He clutches his soft rabbit toy and snuggles closer to him. They are surrounded by blankets, cushioned, protected. Outside, the air is eerily silent with fallen snow. As if their whole house is waiting. 

_Yes,_ Remus wants to say. _He’s fucking terrifying._

“No Harry. He... he’s so excited to meet you.”  
  
*

They make breakfast. Harry has honey on toast. His small, sticky fingers leave prints on the table, his face, Remus’s sweater. It seems they are holding their breath in anticipation for one man to walk in and disrupt the easy routine of it all. 

Eventually, they hear the sound of feet on the stairs. Sirius thuds down, heavy. He’s in the same clothes from last night. He looks less tired, his black hair tied in a messy bun at the top of his head. 

When he spots Harry, he stops. For a moment, he wavers. Remus can see the panic in his eyes. The past pulls him back, like it once did for Remus. Its grasp can tear at reality and make even the smallest child your greatest fear. 

“Harry,” Remus says softly. “Say hello to Sirius.”

His voice pulls Sirius out of his silent terror. The man takes a step closer. His hands tremble at his sides as he scans Harry in wonder. Remus knows what a miracle it is, that this child exists. That there is a living, breathing, _laughing_ future for James and Lily. He knows the enormity of joy and grief it contains. 

For a long moment, Sirius and Harry stare at each other. 

“All everyone... they were afraid,” Harry says eventually. He is matter of fact. Slowly, he moves forward and reaches out to touch Sirius’s hand. To make him real. Just like he once had for Remus. “But you’re not so scary.” 

Once, Sirius would have been indignant. Would have stood tall, his leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders as he twirled his wand and smiled with dangerous eyes.

Now, he softens. He curls inwards, towards Harry. His hair falls in front of his face as he looks down at the small boy with instant love. 

Remus knows that Harry is curious and kind. He has endured a terrible home, accepted a werewolf as his guardian and joyously joined a brood of redheads. He cries as much as he laughs. He feels with his whole heart. He is the best of James and Lily. The _absolute best_. There is no way he won’t love Sirius just as much as they had. It terrifies Remus to the core. 

“No Harry,” Sirius replies quietly. For the first time, his eyes are bright. “I hope not.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have finally made it to the Reunion™. This was a tough one to write. What did you think?


	9. chapter nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: PTSD, reference to child abuse.

This house  
She's holding secrets  
I got my change behind the bed  
In a coffee can  
Throw my nickels in  
Just in case I have to leave  
  
\- Gregory Alan Isakov, _If I Go, I'm Goin_

Somehow the house of two becomes an uneasy home of three. 

Harry is enamoured by Sirius. As the man trudges around wearily and gives Remus tired looks, Harry is on his heels, silent but aware. He absorbs every word Sirius says, soaks up this new addition to their lives with an intrigued quirk of his head. 

And Sirius responds beautifully. Even when the new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes stretch painfully, he is interested and engaged. Harry clambers all over him. Pulls his hair and throws snowballs at his back and pokes and prods with questions until he laughs. With Sirius, Harry is rough and tumble in a way that he never is with Remus. 

Suddenly, Remus realises just how similar they are. Both Harry and Sirius have endured horrors only they can comprehend. Both crave joy, chase their fix of laughter. And even in the darkest of times they are able to hold happiness safely in their hands. To protect it, nurture it. They know how valuable it is. 

But while joy thrives in the day, slow, quiet sadness fills the home at night. Suddenly Remus and Sirius are solitary people who drift around the empty home. There are simply spaces they cannot cross. Topics they refuse to enter, barred like closed doors and secret corridors. 

Sirius is quiet, in the dark. Sometimes he is angry. His fists clench and he bites out words. He doesn’t sleep much. Instead, he insists Remus take back his own bed and prefers to curl up on the sofa as Padfoot. Without Harry, they are two men who don’t know how to speak anymore. Two people who cannot see the other, even as they try to squint at the blurry outline of what they had been.

Sometimes when Remus lies awake and stares up at the ceiling, he can hear the yips and cries of a dog in distress. And then he’ll hear the sound of Sirius’s footsteps. And the kettle boiling. And then the clink of two, hopeful teacups. But Remus doesn’t get out of bed. He lies still as the kettle whistles. And the second cup is put away. And the night continues on, each man alone with their fears.

* 

Conversations start and stop like this:

Sirius has been home for less than a week. He tiptoes around the house but his presence soaks into the fabric of every room. One evening, Remus is slumped on the sofa. Harry has fallen asleep curled in his lap, but he can’t bear to move him. Instead, he brushes his fingers through the child’s hair. Back and forth. Back and forth. He remembers the way Lily would rock her baby to sleep. How James would run his thumb down Harry’s tiny nose. 

Remus hears a noise behind him and turns his head. Sheepishly, Sirius shuffles into the room. He’s wearing joggers and a soft t-shirt. His hair is in a bun, whisps curled around his forehead. He hands Remus a cup of tea and looks down at Harry. The fire pops and crackles. Sirius breathes. 

“Earl grey, splash of milk with one sugar, right?” He says. His eyes move from Harry to Remus. They are grey and familiar. Sirius gives him a small smile. 

And there is such a shock of lost routines and easy comforts that Remus has to swallow the burn of it. Late at night, when they first moved into Sirius’s flat in London and Remus would lose himself curled up with a book, Sirius would bring him tea. Slide his hand down his arm, kiss his neck and draw him to bed. Away from fantasy and back into the warmth of their world.

Sirius hovers for a beat, waiting, like he is expecting the intimacy they once had. 

Remus doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes the tea and inclines his head. Looks back down at Harry. Away.

Or: 

Early one morning, when Remus wakes as the light only just begins to filter through the pale curtains and give his scars a soft glow. He gets up with a groan and stumbles out into the corridor... only to run into a shirtless Sirius still wet from the shower. 

And Sirius _looks at him_. Because he’s Sirius. And Remus can’t catch his eye because it hurts too damn much to remember all the places that mouth has pressed. Instead, he looks to the floor. But not before he catches a glimpse of...

“You have a new tattoo,” he says dumbly. Two runes intertwined, solid on the top of his arm where they twist like the branches of a family tree. 

And Sirius’s face shutters closed as he steps back. “Yes,” he replies.  
  
Remus opens his mouth to say something – anything – apologise, maybe, for prying or apologise for not knowing this body anymore or fucking apologise for any of it. But Sirius keeps going.  
  
“James and I got them... just before. During the war.” He looks at Remus. His face is hard, angry. He bites out, “you would have known, if you’d been there.” 

Or: 

Late at night, when it is just the two of them at a safe distance by the fire. The silence is heavy and wary between them. They are strangers who share a room and a past and now a child. Remus reads a book as Sirius watches the flames. 

“I want to show Harry Padfoot,” Sirius says. “Is that okay?”

Remus glances up at him. “Why wouldn’t that be okay?”

“You haven’t mentioned him yet. I wasn’t sure.” 

Then the buried memory of the first time Sirius transformed hits Remus. 

He remembers the angry, snarling almost-wolf backed into a corner who lashed out at his friends because he was scared, because the moon was rising in less than an hour and _why were they in the Shrieking Shack_ and James’s laugh at the astounded look Remus had given the shaggy black dog that had appeared in front of him. 

And the tears that followed. And the fear and gratefulness and dread and love all wrapped in a display of devotion too big to put a name to except _pack._

Now Remus looks back down at his book. Thinks. Hurts. “Harry _has_ been asking for a pet,” he says, purposefully dismissive. Sirius flinches. 

Or: 

Harry and Sirius. Deliriously happy, they giggle together on the floor beneath the kitchen table as Remus steps into the room. He opens his mouth to say something, but neither of them have noticed him. Instead, he watches as Sirius gently pushes the boy’s fringe out of his eyes. His hand is big on Harry’s face. Harry leans into it. Remus makes a small noise and they both turn to look at him.

Or: 

Sirius asleep. Screaming. 

Or: 

Remus awake, peering into darkness. Hearing a dog pace around downstairs. 

Or: 

Long looks and half-words and no sudden movements and careful space between two bodies that have already mapped the landscape of each other.

 _This is torture_ , Remus thinks to himself as he makes breakfast for Harry and Sirius, as if it is any old morning. As if their friends aren’t dead, _Harry’s parents aren’t dead_. Or Sirius has never been to Azkaban and Remus has never been alone. A dream. A new life. 

Harry flings a cereal loop at Sirius, who catches it in his mouth and they laugh and laugh and laugh until Remus wants to cry. _I can’t... I can’t, I can’t._

*  
  
Remus goes to visit Molly Weasley. He leaves Sirius alone with Harry for the first time and it terrifies him to the core. Like Harry will forget him. Or he’ll be hurt or gone or _dead_ like everything Remus has loved and taken his eyes away from. 

Molly reaches out across the kitchen table and takes his shaky hand. 

“I can’t do this,” Remus admits painfully. It’s an echo of when Harry had first lived with him. _I can’t do this. I can’t do this._

“You can,” Molly replies. “And you will.” 

“This is worse,” Remus says. He has to look away. Take a sip of his tea. It’s horrible to say the truth of it. “This is worse than when he was gone. When... when he was in the past I could forget about it... I could pretend that...”  
  
“But Remus,” Molly interrupts. “Were you _happy?_ ” 

He doesn’t say anything. Outside, Arthur is playing with his kids. They’re in the field around the Burrow, pelting each other with snow and laughing and little Ron is clinging to his father’s leg as the twins taunt him and Percy is reading so intently that he fails to notice his older brother until snow is shoved down the back of his jacket. 

He looks back at Molly. “I don’t know.”  
  
Molly looks angry. Not at Remus though.She is the one gentle thing that he can hold on to.The one solid person that makes sense. “This is overwhelming. I understand. But James and Lily would want you to be happy. Both of you. All of you.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can be... I...” He hates that he stutters. 

“You can. But now is the time to talk, Remus. Now is the time to live. Just talk to him, please.” 

*

When Remus apparates back home, he pauses outside to have a smoke. It’s dark, the only light shining from the antique lamp in the living room. Remus can see the window glow, like a warm, buttery welcome. 

Harry must be in bed already. Remus wonders if the boy missed his goodnight kiss from Remus or if he hadn’t even thought of it in the excitement of Sirius’s stories. If Sirius knew how to stroke his hair back and trace the scar until his eyes fell shut.

The air is so cold that it burns the back of Remus’s throat when he inhales, but he savours the blissful pain of it and closes his eyes. Soon, Christmas will be upon them. Already the town is bustling with baubles and tinsel, hurried shoppers hustling up the high street to buy last minute gifts. He has bought Harry’s already, with his own meagre money. A toy that Harry had been eyeing. A book for them to read together. And a photo of his parents, Sirius and Remus. They all smile in it. 

“Filthy habit,” a teasing voice says beside him. Sirius steps out the back door. His breath comes in balloons of frozen white air as he looks up at the stars. At the Canis Major. Back at Remus. He rubs his hands together.

“Want one?” Remus asks, holding out the packet.  
  
Sirius shakes his head. His dark hair is tucked behind his ears. “Nah, gave those up when Harry was born. Add a few years in Azkaban and the craving is truly gone...” 

“Oh.” There is a long silence. That Sirius can joke about prison like that... Remus takes another drag. He tries desperately not to think of stolen cigarettes behind the Herbology greenhouse. Of smoke shared between two mouths. Sirius had been the one to introduce him to the joy of it. He’d taught all the Marauders how to smoke. How to exhale into shapes that danced around your head. He said it was _so_ _fucking cool Moony._

Now, Sirius stares at Remus’s hand where he holds the cigarette like it is poison. Then his eyes flick up to Remus’s face. For a long moment, they look at each other. Remus breaks away. Back to the stars. Thinks about what Molly said, he _can’t, he can’t..._

But Sirius has always been the brave one. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” He asks eventually.

“About what?” 

“Everything. Fuck. Anything, Remus.” 

Remus takes another drag. His stomach sinks. He has spent years avoiding the horrible truth of it. Has fucked it away. Smoked it. The past was meant to stay there, but now Sirius Black stares him in the face and demands it unearthed. If anyone has the power, it is him. If anyone has the courage...

“Why would we do a thing like that?” Remus asks sardonically instead. _Fuck, fuck._  
  
Sirius’s hands clench. For a moment, Remus fucking _dares him_ to have a go... but he lets out a breath. Unfurls. Sirius takes a step back and looks at Remus. He blinks slowly and his eyes seem to scan Remus like he is taking measurements for a new dress robe. 

“I spent years with those Dementors,” Sirius says. His words are soft. “Every horrible, agonising moment of my past was replayed on repeat. Every dread amplified. I have lived that pain, in my mind, in my body. I know how real it is. But you know what seems even worse?” He meets Remus’s eyes. “Not letting yourself feel it at all.” 

Remus grits his teeth and looks down. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t I?” Sirius says. He rocks forward, closer to Remus. “I _know_ you. You like to think I don’t, but I do. I know every fucking inch of you inside and out...” 

“And you still thought I was the traitor.” It is despicable in the cold of the night. 

“There you are,” Sirius says, like he is relieved. Like he was waiting for it. Poking the wolf, wanting a reaction. But Remus can’t... he can’t give it to him. 

“I miss James so fucking much.” The pain seems to steal Sirius’s breath, for a moment. “He was everything. And Lily. My family, you know? They were my family and I killed them. Don’t you even _miss_ them?” 

_Don’t you miss me?_  
  
“I miss everything,” Remus replies. 

He wants to cry but he can’t. If he cries, he will never stop. He could spend a lifetime crying for James and Lily. He could spend another crying for Peter. And for Sirius. For what they had and what they lost. When do you stop? Is it even possible? 

“They were my family too,” he says. “You think you’re the only one who loved them?” He can’t get his words out. They choke him. Like when he was told they were dead and Sirius a traitor. Bile spilling out his mouth. But now it’s an angry, black cloud of twisted emotion. 

Peter’s mad confession reverberates in his mind. The wolf snarls. _Did any of you ever really love me?_

Sirius watches him with dark, hungry eyes. Remus knows what he wants. For him to scream. Scream and cry and yell and kiss him angrily like they used to fuck out all their arguments... but Remus is empty. He is empty of it all. 

Instead, he lets out a heavily-restrained breath. He looks at Sirius, who is wild and bruised. “And you didn’t kill them,” Remus adds for good measure as he stubs his cigarette out against the wall. “So stop saying you did. It doesn’t absolve you.”

He throws the cigarette butt into the ashtray and slams back inside. 

*

As Remus lies in bed the next morning, he can see Peter’s face. Round, rosy-cheeked, happy. In the quiet of the Hogwarts library, he would gently ask Remus for help. Call himself stupid. _You’re not Petey,_ Remus would say. _You just solve things differently to others._

Now, all Remus can remember is his friend’s snarled, angry face pressed red into prison bars. _How easy it was to convince them it was you._ Spitting. Scarred. Lashing out with bitterness and fear. Solving it the way he knew how... by unraveling the truths that kept them together. 

Inside Remus is a monster. He knows that. It howls and scratches and yearns. When he was young, he thought that was all he was. A monster in boy’s clothes. It took the Marauders – the group of people he loved most in this world – to show him that he was more than that. And to have that trust taken away... 

Downstairs, Remus can hear Sirius make himself a cup of tea. The kettle boils. Sirius’s feet patter softly on the wooden floor. Instead of listening to the familiar routine, Remus gets out of bed. He makes his way silently downstairs to hover at the kitchen door. 

Here, in the quiet hour when the Earth still holds her breath with the possibility of day, Sirius is extraordinarily beautiful. His tired eyes still have soft laughter lines that hint at mischief. His hair twists delicately around his cheekbones. He has gained happy, healthy weight. He is young and old. 

Remus leans against the door. It creaks and Sirius turns. Freezes.

 _I can’t hate you,_ Remus thinks. He simply can’t hate Sirius. Not when he looks at him like that. But he can be angry. And bitter. And sad. Sirius probably feels the same. Moreso, perhaps, with the added darkness of Azkaban. Of seeing James and Lily dead. The betrayal of it all... 

_Just talk,_ Molly Weasley had said. As if it were the simplest thing. And maybe it is. There are so many questions Remus has unanswered. So many hurts. If they had all talked before the war, maybe this could have been avoided. Maybe... but it doesn’t do well to dwell on maybes. All he can do now is plunge his fingers into the wound left behind and dig the hurt out, just like he weeded the garden around his new home. 

“Did they...” Remus pauses, hesitant. Sirius simply looks at him. He lets his arms drop to his sides as his grey eyes watch Remus carefully, hopefully. Still sore from the conversation last night. “Did Prongs and Lily... did they think I was the traitor too?”  
  
There is silence. Outside, snow falls. The sun is a hint on the horizon, it catches on the windowsill and spreads orange obscenely across the kitchen. Sirius is steady but sad. Honesty, now. That is all they have left. 

“Yes,” Sirius says. 

“Okay,” Remus replies, agonised, breathless. He didn’t think there was a part of him left to break, but there _was_. Fuck, there was. “Okay.” 

It is a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, happy new year! Big apologies for the delay between chapters. The holiday season overwhelmed me plus writer's block really got to me ha. In the end it took a lot of rewriting and reordering until it finally felt natural. Would love to get your feedback <3
> 
> I have a few more chapters planned and then perhaps some one-shots if there's still an interest. Next up... conversations Sirius and Remus need to have in order to move forward.


	10. chapter ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: reference to child abuse.

I'm sorry I haven't been myself  
And something's got me down  
What it is, I cannot tell  
I won't be satisfied with anything I've earned  
Fear is just a part of love  
And one thing I found  
Is love is what you deserve  
  
\- Briston Maroney, _Freakin' Out On the Interstate_

Honesty comes in sentences pulled from the back of their throats. Involuntarily, like a howl to the moon. 

Remus feels bruised. But it is not the wolf that has laid siege to his body this time. There are no claw marks to close, no salve that can be applied. Only more wounds, fresh. Picked at the scab until they bleed and bleed. 

He feels detached. He makes dinner. He plays with Harry. He escapes outside to smoke. 

Sirius watches him, like a wretched ghost of a man. They are betrayer and betrayed, both of them. Is it worse that Remus believed Sirius had actually killed James and Lily or that Sirius ever thought Remus could? Perhaps they cancel each other out. Perhaps they are equally sinned and atoned. It doesn’t feel like it. 

Instead, in the dark of an evening when the clock ticks endlessly and the fire smokes and breaks, Remus traces the edge of his whiskey glass and watches the amber liquid dance with the reflection of the flames. 

“Was it the wolf thing?” He asks. 

And Sirius tilts his long neck up to look at him from where he sits on the floor by the fire. A dog, curious and cautious. His eyes are dark. His lips are wet with beer. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Was it the Black thing?” Sirius replies.

*

In the harsh snow-white of day, Remus has never seen Harry so excited. He hops around the house putting up garlands of orange and holly. He insists Remus play the Muggle radio so that Christmas music fills the home.

 _He is James,_ Remus thinks. _Like James with joy._ But then he can’t. His black hair sticks up just like... his eyes exactly like... Oh, to feel angry at people he cannot be. It is hard to look at Harry. It is even harder to look at...

Sirius’s grin is sideways – _young –_ as he levitates a small, patched tree from the forest into their living room. It bumps into the furniture. His eyes sparkle as he says _oops_ with a look that says he isn’t sorry at all. Harry screeches in delight and insists that he’s put on Sirius’s shoulders. 

Together they fasten hastily transfigured decorations to drooped branches as Harry checks once again whether they’re _sure Saint Nicholas will know where I am._

“Yes Harry,” Sirius says patiently as Harry tugs at his hair. Sirius growls and pretends to bite at his foot. Harry giggles and squirms, barely staying atop Sirius’s shoulders. 

“Mr and Mrs Dursley said he didn’t know about children in cupboards,” Harry says. “But Ron said Saint Nicholas knows _everything._..”

Remus swallows the lump in his throat. He looks down at the candles in his hands. When Harry was a baby, Remus remembers how Lily would make them dance around his crib so that he could follow the flames with his eyes. _Oh, if she was here... if she heard..._

Sirius pauses. “Harry,” he says with a disjointed tone. He takes a breath. “Harry, Saint Nicky knows about you personally. I promise. That’s how damn good a boy you’ve been.”

“Really?” Harry peers over Sirius’s shoulder to look at Remus. Remus smiles at him. It hurts.  
  
“Really.” 

Later when Harry is in bed, Sirius and Remus hover in the kitchen. There is barely-light. White shapes on tired, shadowed faces. Sirius drinks beer and Remus washes the dishes, slowly. Then... honesty, again. Sharp. 

“Why didn’t you get him sooner?” Sirius says. 

Remus hunches forward. Closes his eyes. 

It’s a double-ended wand, that question. He didn’t get Harry sooner because he couldn’t. It hurt too much to think of the child. And when he did – between drinks and men and potions and claws – Remus simply preferred the dream that Harry had a happy life compared to the stark reality that without James and Lily, it was destined to be an empty one.

But that is not the question Sirius asks. No. And that is not the answer he wants either. _Why didn’t you get me sooner._

“You know why,” Remus says blankly. 

There is a long silence. He hears the thud of Sirius putting his beer down on the table firmly. The scrape of his chair. 

“It seems that it must be very hard to feel sorry for someone else,” Sirius says. His voice is rough, shaky. “...when you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself.” 

He slams out of the room. Remus scrubs the dishes, one by one. 

*

In the darkness of past-midnight, Remus tries to remember the last conversation he had with James. And with Lily. Had they laughed? Did he say that he loved them? Surely, in the middle of the war, Remus had made sure to say that he _loved them_ every time he walked out the front door. Did they say it in return? He can’t remember. He can’t... he can’t fucking remember. 

*

Two days before Christmas, Sirius corners Remus in the hallway. His eyes look somewhere in the direction of Remus’s ear. His mouth is a straight line. They haven’t spoken since the last time. Each word feels too much like blame. Is this... is this their life now? 

“I need to go to London,” he says. “There is... a Christmas gift for Harry is there. At the apartment. I just... would that be okay?”

“Would it be...” Remus is uncertain. 

“To go,” Sirius finishes. “Just to... pick up the gift.” 

And Remus is shocked into a jumble of honesty. “Sirius... you do know that... you do know that you don’t have to stay here, right? You can come and go as you... we’re not. I’m not... this isn’t _prison...”_

This whole time, Sirius skulking around the house. Late at night. Up at first light. Did he think he was trapped? _Too busy feeling sorry for myself_ , Remus thinks. 

Sirius scoffs, but his shoulders loosen. “I _know_ that.” 

Then he looks at Remus squarely in the face. Sees something, maybe, in the way Remus can’t meet his eye. He repeats firmly, “I know that, okay?” 

*

“Harry, put your boots on,” Remus says later that afternoon, when Sirius is out of the house and it’s just the two of them. “We’re going to visit Neris.”

Harry hurries and skips the entire walk. It’s been... it’s been entirely too long since any of them have been out of the house. Remus has already broken promises to himself and to Harry. Not to hide him away. Not to be outsiders. He wonders if there will ever be a time he doesn’t feel like he is failing at this strange life. 

On the way, Harry stomps in the snow and insists on holding Remus’s hand. Remus looks down at him.  
  
“Harry,” he says. The boy has grown, already. How has he grown? When did he go from a small, scared thing hidden under a bed to this? Sirius’s words ring in his ears. Has he not paid enough attention to him? “Are you... you like Sirius, don’t you?” 

Harry smiles. “Sirius is the bestest. And Padfoot.” 

“Good,” Remus says distractedly. “And you like... us all living together?” 

“Oh yes,” Harry says. Then he pauses. Looks up at Remus uncertainly. “Is that okay? Sirius is... he’s pack too, right?” 

“Yes,” Remus swallows. “He is pack.” The words are heavy in the crisp air. 

“Good,” Harry replies. 

When they reach Neris’s house, it is covered in Christmas lights. A bright spark on the street. She greets them at the door with a smile, gives Harry a hug and lets him roam the house. It is covered in photos of family, fine china and ceramic ornaments of women dancing in beautiful dresses. Harry touches everything, gently. 

“It’s been a little while,” Neris says as she pours Remus tea. “You’ve been well?”  
  
Remus smiles politely. “Yes, we’ve been keeping quiet at home, with the... snow.”  
  
“Oh yes,” Neris says. “Terrible out there.”

There is a long, awkward pause as Remus takes a sip of his tea. He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Crosses them again. 

Neris leans forward. Puts her hand gently on Remus’s knee. “Child, I assume this isn’t just a social call. As happy as I am to see Harry, there seems to be more on your mind.”  
  
Remus sighs. “I have... someone staying with us. An old... a friend from school. He’s been through a lot. He... well he recently got out of prison. Not that he’s dangerous! I mean... Merlin, I’m fucking this up.”  
  
Neris laughs. She raises an eyebrow. “You came all this way to tell me you have a gentleman caller at your house?” 

“It’s not like that! I mean... Sirius, is his name. He’s been in the papers a bit lately...”  
  
“ _Sirius Black_...” Neris breathes. “Oh yes, we all heard about his escape. And then they had a closed trial, didn’t they? Innocent, they said. After all that time. Dreadful, dreadful. Honestly...”

“He’s been staying at my place. We’ve kind of... we’ve been hiding out there. But I don’t want him to have to hide. For Harry to have to... I was hoping that you could, I don’t know... spread the word?” 

Neris laughs again. “Ah, you’ve come to start the gossip machine. I see you’ve been talking to my granddaughter, Gemma. She’s usually good at this sort of thing.” 

Remus looks down sheepishly. “I was hoping we could go into town tomorrow. I just... I don’t want to scare anyone.”

“Not to worry,” Neris says briskly. “I’ll sort it out.” 

*

The town is busy on Christmas Eve. Each shop is lit in brilliant rainbow colours. Beautiful yellow lights overhang the high street as if the stars have come down to say hello. And carolers sing on the corner. There is joy in the air, real joy. It’s a stark contrast to silent evenings at home. 

Harry holds Sirius’s hand. Surrounded by the life and colour of the street, Sirius looks young. His hair is tucked behind his ears. He’s neatened his stubble and is wearing a long black coat and scarf that wraps snugly around his neck. He is a far cry from the man in the paper, but that doesn’t stop the townspeople from staring. When they walk past, people turn away. Or whisper to each other. But nobody is startled. 

“I should’ve come as Padfoot,” Sirius mutters. “Safer. Easier.” 

“This is our home,” Remus says firmly. Sirius looks sideways at him. There is something angrily fond in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says.

Harry pulls them in whichever direction he chooses. To the sweet shop, where he gets a free Christmas chocolate and the ladies coo over him while pointedly trying not to look at Sirius. To the charity shop where Harry runs up to Old Julian to see their new collection of scarves. While Harry makes his selection, Julian greets Remus and Sirius. 

“Bad, that business with the coppers,” he says gruffly. “Good to have you here, boy.” 

And then Gemma and Neris, in the street. They’re strolling together slowly, arm in arm. When they spot Remus, Sirius and Harry, they veer over. Gemma looks scandalously delighted.

“Well, Remus Lupin has finally emerged. Who knew you’d bring more drama to our little village than I ever could?” Gemma grins, reaches down to tug at Harry’s new scarf. “Hey kiddo.” And then she looks up at Sirius. “No need for an introduction, Gran told me all about the new man in town. The paper did you no justice, you’re _much_ better looking in person.”  
  
Sirius raises an eyebrow as Remus hurriedly explains. “This is Gemma and Neris.” 

“Pleased to meet you both,” Sirius says politely. 

Neris laughs, pats Sirius on the cheek with a mittened hand. “Oh no need to be so...”  
  
“Serious?” Sirius smirks. “Don’t worry, that joke has been made plenty of times.” And Remus has to stop himself from saying something ridiculous, like _fuck I’ve missed it though._ Because he sounds like Sirius before war, when words weren’t used as weapons, instead for the simple pleasure of making each other laugh. 

Later, Harry spots some of the children he used to play with. They’re making snowmen. Scrunching snow in their hands. Chasing each other. Harry looks at Remus and then back to the playground, but he doesn’t say anything. Simply holds Sirius’s hand tightly, unsure. 

“Go on,” Remus murmurs, giving him a nudge. Harry grins and runs to join them. 

Sirius and Remus sit on a bench under a nearby tree. There are a group of mothers at the other end of the park. They look at Sirius warily, but don’t approach. Remus reaches in his pocket and pulls out a cigarette from his pack. 

“I think I forgot,” Sirius says suddenly. “That there’s a world out here. Even before... Azkaban. During the war. I forgot there were still people who went about their ordinary lives.” 

“We all forgot,” Remus says. He takes a drag of his cigarette. In the before, it didn’t much seem like there would be an after. Only endless days of battle. 

“He’s a happy kid,” Sirius murmurs. “You’ve... you’ve done a good job.” 

“I didn’t do anything, he did it on his own.” 

“Remus, I’m trying to give you a bloody compliment here, okay?” 

Remus sighs. He looks down at the cigarette in his hand. The ash lands heavily in the snow. Sirius wrinkles his nose. The cold bubbles around them, the town bustles, the children laugh. 

To Remus, it all still feels muted. These realities, these lives, they never stay. Remus knows better than anyone. Good fades. Until it is hollow and alone. He watches Harry fall backwards into the snow. Get up again.

“James and Lily wouldn’t have wanted him with me,” Remus says. It is a bruise he hasn’t pressed on enough yet, a pain he simply cannot heal. “If they didn’t _trust_ me... he, he should be with you.” 

Sirius, angry. “He is with me. And you.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t...”

“Don’t you fucking _dare...”_

He can feel the moon rise in his bones. Sirius breathes, heavily. 

“It wasn’t the wolf thing,” Sirius says. He runs a hand through his hair. He looks at Remus steadily. “I... It was so fucked up, during the war. You weren’t there. And fuck, I’m not saying that to... whatever, I’m saying that because you don’t understand what they were like, at the end. What we were all like. Afraid of our shadows. Doubting everything. Each other...”  
  
“They didn’t doubt _you_ ,” Remus takes another drag of his cigarette. 

“Because I was there. Within their line of sight, most of the time. The only thing they trusted was what they could see with their own eyes. Fuck, most of the time you’d come back and couldn’t _look_ at us.”

He pauses. “I’m... I’m sorry, Remus. And I know... they would be sorry too. More than you can know. You’re good with him, _you love_ Harry. Don’t give that up because of that fucking war. Don’t you dare.” 

Sirius of the past would make a joke, right about now. Would bat his eyes and say _pretty please Moony._ But they are changed. The past is heavy on Remus too. It lays within his bones like the wolf. It tears just as angrily. It pulls with just as much hurt. He wishes he had the energy to grieve, still. Maybe that would get it out. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus chokes instead. “For...”

“I know,” Sirius says.

“It wasn’t the Black thing,” Remus says. 

“I know,” Sirius replies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, untangling these boys is a messy business. What did you think of the chapter? A huge shout out to @swifty_fox on TikTok for recommending this fic, and thank you to everyone who has commented. It honestly means so much to get your feedback and yell about all the complicated emotions these Marauders inspire in us x


	11. chapter eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: reference to child abuse.

Don't tell me the truth  
Tell me that it didn't happen  
There's been a mistake  
There's been a misunderstanding  
  
\- Aidan Hawken, _Walking Blind_

Christmas breaks bright and early. Remus pads downstairs just as the sun rises. Already he can hear Harry and Sirius tear around the living room like nifflers on a hunt. He pauses by the door, catches the scene.

They’re in their pyjamas. Sirius looks so much like he did the first Christmas in their new flat, his face breathless with happiness. Then, it had only been the two of them. Sirius had bounced on his toes by their shoddy Christmas tree, dressed only in his pants and a Santa hat. He’d said, _looks like Santa was good to you Moony. I think he deserves a kiss,_ and Remus had fallen into him with a helpless laugh. 

Now Sirius chases Harry yelling, _ho, ho, ho!_ Harry laughs, shoves chocolate in his mouth. Bounces on the sofa and does a loop around the room. When Sirius spots Remus, his face settles into an expression Remus can’t place. Happy-sad. Yesterday’s apologies have gentled them. 

He says, “Merry Christmas, Moony.” This time, Remus doesn’t flinch at the childhood nickname. 

“Merry Christmas,” he replies. 

Sirius is soft in the morning light. He smiles cautiously.

 _J_ _ust give us a day_ , Remus thinks. Then he stumbles awkwardly backwards, rocked by Harry who has launched straight into him. Harry jumps up and down, hugs Remus’s legs. 

“Merry Christmas Remy! Saint Nicholas was here. Sirius said he caught his bottom on fire. I think he was _lying._ Are we going to open presents? You have to open yours. And Sirius said we could have chocolate for breakfast. And then see Ron! And...” 

Remus crouches down to wrap him in a proper hug. There are empty spaces around them, people who should be here and aren’t. He breathes Harry in.  
  
“Presents first?” He suggests. 

Together they sit by the tree. Its branches already wilt and droop, but Harry doesn’t notice. Instead he pauses at the small pile of gifts.  
  
“Which one is mine?” He asks.  
  
Remus and Sirius look at each other. Away. 

“They’re all yours,” Remus says gently. 

Harry turns wide eyes on them. “Wow. Thank you,” he breathes. 

Harry unwraps each present reverently. There are not many, not like other children. But he is incredibly grateful. His smile is brighter than the lights on the Christmas tree as he unwraps drawing pencils, a book, a toy and a few clothes. Harry clambers over to squish his nose against their faces. He laughs _thank you, thank you!_

When he opens Remus’s special gift – he looks at him uncertainly. It’s a photo album. The first half is filled with photos. Of his parents, when they were young. Him as a baby. Sirius throwing Harry in the air as James screeches. Lily asleep with Harry on her chest. 

“It’s your Mum and Dad, Harry,” Remus says. Then he picks up the small camera that came with the gift. Molly had pressed it into his hands a few days ago. “And this is for us to fill up the rest of the book. With new memories.” 

Harry touches the album, gently. He doesn’t understand now, but he will. “Thank you, Remy,” he says. 

Remus doesn’t look at Sirius. He can feel the man’s eyes on the side of his neck, burned. He doesn't think of James and Lily, who trusted him until they didn't. Instead, he continues to hand out gifts. Harry has made each man a card, clumsily-heartfelt drawings with love hearts and Christmas decorations. Remus has to take a breath when he receives it. Tries to imprint the picture behind his eyelids. 

For Sirius, Remus bought a second-hand leather jacket. It’s soft and worn beneath his fingers. Sirius smiles and hands Remus his present. A sweater of warm, blue wool. Memories pass between them. Years unfinished. 

Harry’s final gift is from Sirius. It’s clumsily-wrapped, awkwardly-shaped. Harry opens it and laughs in delight. Remus blinks, rapidly. It’s the toy dog. The one that James had bought Harry as a joke, to tease Sirius. Fluffy, black and harmless. James had said, _it’s you, Padfoot._ And Sirius had said, _fuck off I’m much scarier_ but insisted Harry sleep with it every night. 

“It’s from when you were a baby,” Sirius says. “You left it at my house, once. Now I can give it back to you.”  
  
Harry crushes the dog to his chest, says, “Now I can take Padfoot everywhere.” 

And Sirius says, “Yes, yes always, Harry.” 

*

The Weasley house is overwhelmingly loud. Children scream and shout. Glass smashes to the ground. Baby Ginny cries. As they step out of the floo, a Quidditch ball flies past their faces. The twins throw it back and forth, clambering over furniture, knocking over ornaments. 

Molly storms through, yelling, “Take it outside boys! I said no balls in the house!” 

Sirius leans over. “Does she mean us?” He asks with a grin.  
  
Remus shushes him as Molly wraps Remus and Harry in a warm hug. She smells like Christmas cookies, a twitch of frantic magic and home. When she releases them, she rocks backwards to look at Sirius for the very first time. Her eyes travel up and down, they soften. 

“Merry Christmas Molly,” Sirius says. He awkwardly juts out the bottle of wine and homemade skincare Remus whipped up. Molly sweeps them into her arms and then Sirius, too. 

“Merry Christmas, Sirius,” she says with a catch in her voice. He looks slightly alarmed. 

The noise starts up again and they are whisked away. Plied with wine and sat by the fire. Ron rushes Harry to the kitchen to show him the presents he received. _I got Bill’s old broom! The one for kids,_ he exclaims excitedly. Molly makes them promise not to fly it alone. Or in the house. The boys nod solemnly. Sirius gives them a cheeky wink as Remus raises an eyebrow.

But the biggest surprise comes when Arthur hands Harry his present. It's wrapped in brown paper. One of the children has written HARRY in big sloping letters. Harry looks up at Arthur and Molly, whose faces shine with joy. He tentatively opens the gift to reveal a red sweater with the letter _H_ stitched proudly. Harry immediately puts it on. His face is wide with a grin, he looks at Remus, teary. 

“You’re one of us now,” Ron says. 

“Wow,” Harry manages to breathe. 

As a child, Remus had barely been able to imagine friends. His family consisted of a distant father and a mother desperate to do her best. He was lonely, a lot. He was sad, a lot. And he knows he would be just as stunned as Harry to be surrounded by people who loved him enough to make him one of their own. 

He leans down, smooths Harry’s fringe off his forehead. “Say thank you, Harry,” he says.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers. Arthur ruffles his hair and Molly kisses him until Harry squirms away with a laugh and Ron says, _gross Mum!_

Later, they sit around the table. It bustles with food and love. Sirius regales the twins with Marauder tales in a voice that hides any waver of tragedy. He smiles at Molly as she pushes another helping onto his plate. Gladly accepts more red wine from Arthur. 

The children laugh with each other. Bill says, _wait you’re saying that’s_ the _Harry Potter_ until Arthur quietens him. Charlie shoves a carrot up Percy’s nose that makes him cry. Harry and Ron play catch the peas _,_ a competition that involves throwing green projectiles into each other’s mouths. Molly sighs and says, _at least they’re eating their vegetables_ and Remus can’t help but agree. He is warm with wine, soft with Christmas cheer. 

Sirius watches him across the table. He watches Sirius. 

*

When they get home, they slump onto the sofa. Even Harry can’t seem to move, only roll around the floor saying _I’m stuffed, Siri. I’m gonna explode!_ He picks at leftover chocolates and gives them a swipe with his tongue. When he realises he may _actually_ explode, Harry sadly puts them back in the tray. Remus makes a note of which ones have been covered in kid saliva with a reminder to feed them to Sirius later. 

In the meantime, Sirius somehow manages to sniff out a stash of tequila hidden in the kitchen cupboard. He raises his eyebrow at Remus and gestures with the bottle, _you want some?_ Remus nods in reply. 

Together, the three of them sit by the fire. Harry wraps himself up between Remus and Sirius. He has the photo album in his lap and flips through it like a storybook. Harry asks yawning questions like, _was my mum a princess?_ To which Sirius snorts and Remus says _oh yes of course._ And _what did he sound like?_ To which Sirius says, _exactly like you._

And as they drink and reminisce and Harry’s eyes begin to droop, Sirius gets quieter. And his expression slips. And he pours more tequila. And his breath shallows. _What goes up must come down,_ Remus thinks. 

Harry eventually crashes into a chocolate-induced sleep. When Remus puts him to bed, he smiles. His Weasley sweater is still stained with Christmas lunch and his arms wrap around the toy dog that Sirius returned to him. Remus kisses his hair, traces the lightning scar that cracks through his forehead. 

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” Remus whispers. Sopped with tequila and memories, the words sound a lot like, _I love you._

When he makes his way back downstairs, Sirius is slumped. He has tequila in one hand and the photo album in the other. He brings the bottle up to his downturned lips. His profile carves a curved silhouette. Hunched, ached. 

“Sirius,” Remus murmurs as he enters the room. He crouches down on the floor in front of him. 

Sirius’s eyes are wet and furious. He doesn’t meet Remus’s gaze. Instead he watches the photographs. Lily and James smile, obscenely-alive in each frame. Vibrant. So _young_ that it is revolting they ever spent a minute wasting it on war. 

“It isn’t fucking fair,” he says. He throws down the album. 

“I know,” Remus replies. 

Sirius’s fist clenches. His nails bite half-moon crescents into his palm. Remus touches each knuckle, gently. 

“He would’ve...” Sirius is too angry to speak. “He would’ve fucking _adored_ today. He would’ve... it should be him. It should be him!” 

He is despair, personified. Sirius’s eyes are endless, hollow pools when he finally _looks._ He is emptied out of every ounce of joy and laughter. Used it up, for Harry. Smiled it out, for Molly. Remus doesn’t dare breathe. 

Here, with each other. They can be nothing. It’s what they have left, isn’t it? Dead friends. A dead relationship. Dead memories. They look at each other. And look. 

“I know,” Remus whispers. It should’ve. It fucking should have. Remus and Sirius both know, they should be dead and Lily and James should be alive. The two of them would have made it. Would know what to do, how to continue, how to breathe. 

“Do you remember,” Sirius says. “Do you remember our first Christmas? At Hogwarts.” He takes another swig of tequila. “Jamie stayed because my parents decided I needed to be punished that year. Cause, Gryffindor. He... he _stayed_. And you stayed because of the moon, and... and...”  
  
“And Peter stayed, because he didn’t want to be left out,” Remus continues for him. 

“That rat bastard,” Sirius says viciously. “But we ate so much food. And found so many tunnels. Planned pranks. And we laughed. We spent the entire holiday laughing. Fuck, it was one of the greatest Christmases I ever had.”

Sirius sucks in a breath. Memories are visceral, Remus knows that. He can see James. The way his smile lit up an entire dormitory. And his joy was contiguous, infectious. That Christmas, he had forcibly dragged every lonely child into the courtyard for _the greatest snowball fight Hogwarts has ever seen_. It lasted for three days. Remus had seen the Professors placing bets. 

And James... well, James was Sirius’s person from that moment on. Remus knows this as certainly as he knows the moon will rise. They were more than brothers. Soulmates, sentences unspoken. Remus and Lily would share wry smiles and winks. Would joke, _why don’t you just marry each other then,_ and Sirius would swoon into James arms and they would pretend to snog with loud-wet sounds. 

“In Azkaban,” Sirius says, shaking his head. “The Dementors... they take every good thing. They take it all. What if I...? I can’t forget him, Remus. I can’t... _don’t let me_.”

He lets Sirius curl into him. He tucks his hair behind his ears and takes the tequila bottle out of his hand. Sirius shudders. 

“You won’t,” Remus whispers. “You could never.” 

“I miss him,” Sirius says.  
  
“I know,” Remus replies. 

“And her,” Sirius says. 

“Yes,” Remus replies. 

“And you."

Sirius falls asleep on the couch. His lips still smell of tequila when Remus pulls a blanket up under his chin. He imagines James, standing with his arms crossed next to him and joking with a crooked smile, _the drunken lush, aren’t you going to kiss him better, Moony?_ And Remus would elbow him and say _do it your bloody self_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I still had to make Christmas angsty. These boys. Also, wow you guys. The response to the last chapter has blown me away. I have adored every single comment, it means so much to hear what you think and that you're enjoying the story. And a massive shout out to @aidanelizabeth for recommending and reacting to this fic over on TikTok. It's so incredible. As always, comment below and see you next chapter!


	12. chapter twelve

My friend is gone, he ran away  
I can tell you, I love him each day  
Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged  
I can tell you I love him each day  
  
\- Sufjan Stevens, _The_ _Predatory Wasp of The Palisades Is Out To Get Us_

The space between Christmas and New Year is slipperier than melted snow. Days stretch and retract. They slide from one to the other, content. Gentled, heavy with leftovers. 

After the great tequila confession that we _need not speak about Remus_ , a secret corridor opens between the two men. They funnel memories surreptitiously, cautiously. They put down the ghost of their pain, if only for a day or two. They let it rest. 

Instead Sirius smiles when he talks about James. Remus tries to smile with him. When he can’t, he reminisces. _Do you remember how James snored?_ He describes the sound, _a hoot, a snort, a honk_ until Sirius laughs with tears. A piece inside Remus quakes and breaks back into place. It is enough. 

Sirius touches him more. Remus wishes he didn’t notice but he _does._ Wishes his body wasn’t so tuned to the gentle fingers that brush his shoulder. Or the toes that touch his shin beneath the kitchen table when Harry says something they’re not meant to laugh at. They circle the intimacy they used to occupy. Remus retreats each time.

On New Year’s Eve, Sirius insists they have a party. _A new start for all of us,_ he says. His eyes ache and hope in equal measure. The three of them wear pointed party hats. They put up decorations and pour wine. Harry takes to counting down at random intervals throughout the night, bounding in happiness. Each time he reaches one, they cheer. 

When the clock finally turns over to midnight, Harry is curled on the sofa. He sleeps peacefully into their new beginning. His chest rises and falls. They follow each breath, five, four, three, two... and raise their glasses in a silent celebration. They watch each other. 

“Happy New Year Moony,” Sirius murmurs. His eyes are dark. Lips stained red with wine. 

“Happy New Year,” Remus swallows. 

For the first time, Remus thinks about the future. Another year of this. And as much as he tries not to – he thinks, _yes._ Yes I could do this one more year. Yes, I could make something of this shoddy mess. This broken and patched existence. Maybe, maybe... 

But as always, the moon approaches. Remus can feel it drag his bones to a shudder and halt. His body twists. His spine aches. Really, he should be used to the way it wrenches him from himself. A sick, moon-led puppet. 

He isn’t.

*

Sirius avoids Remus when he is Padfoot. Slinks out of the room. Distracts, yips and nips at Harry. If they startle upon each other, his grey eyes turn away. His ears flatten back. He sinks belly-low to the floor. 

Human-Remus feels the same. It hurts to look at Padfoot. He is a creature of childhood. Blissfully, angrily pack. If he could, he would lay on the floor too. Supplicate, humbly. Say, _sorry for all the hurt we've caused each other as humans._

But the wolf inside Remus yearns and hates in equal measure. It is angry. And Sirius can feel it. How sick with need the wolf is. For stag, rat and dog. For child. They are so close to the surface. Sunken into Remus's skin. Entwined in him. He knows that this moon will be a bad one. But still –

“You will go with Harry,” he says with false-calm to Sirius. “And spend the night with the Weasleys. This isn’t up for negotiation.”

Now Sirius has none of the submission he has as Padfoot. He is furious, fierce. It’s an argument they’ve had every day leading up to the moon. “You don’t just get to _decide...”_

“Yes,” Remus says, hard. “Yes I do.” 

Sirius runs an angry hand through his hair. He snarls, “I thought we were equals here.” 

Angry words catch on his teeth. Remus chokes them back. “Not about this.” His jaw clenches. “I will not...” 

“Accept help? Instead you’ll tear yourself up alone. Such a fucking _martyr._ ” 

“I will not risk you! Or Harry!” Remus stumbles backwards, takes a breath. In the other room, Harry plays obliviously with toys. Remus will not subject him to another argument. He lowers his voice, whispers angrily, “What do you think the wolf will do Sirius? I have been alone for so many moons. Even before...”

He stops himself. _Even before you were gone,_ hangs in the air between them. During the war there had been endless lonely moons. Endless agonising ones. At one point, Remus realised that James, Lily, Peter and even Sirius had forgotten to track them. They would look shocked, when Remus returned. Shocked and – what Remus now recognises – suspicious. 

Sirius raises his eyes. Traces the scars that stretch across Remus’s face. Throat. Arms. He is an assembled, mangled body of mistakes. Remus can sometimes hardly believe he ever let Sirius touch it. 

“Padfoot can help...”

“Padfoot can’t _look at me._ And you think the wolf will be _overjoyed_ to see you either? No. He’ll kill you. Like he tries to kill me. If anything happened to you, Sirius. I couldn’t...” 

Sirius is quiet. “I don’t agree,” he says. “I don’t think you would hurt me. I think you are _better_ with Padfoot. Don’t you want to try?” 

“Think of Harry,” Remus says. “He needs one of us. Please.” He sags. Then asks again, the only thing he can ask of Sirius. “Please.” 

Sirius watches him. His mouth holds unhappy so beautifully. “Fine,” he says. 

*

For days, the wolf paces like a shadow between them. Sirius tries to match its stride. He can’t keep up.

*

At nearly-full, Remus sneaks outside with his pack of cigarettes. He watches the stars, can feel the earth rotate as he barely holds onto the surface. It’s comical, really. How much the moon must have seen. How small and scared and insignificant they must all look. His hand traces across the layers of spells that arch over their home. The protections he has put in place to keep his family safe. It doesn't feel like enough, anymore. What do you do when the monster is inside?

“Are you out here being bloody morbid again?” He hears Sirius ask behind him. 

Remus hums. He inhales and exhales. “Only a bit.” 

Sirius joins him in the garden. He leans back on the wall and digs his toe into the sogged ground, kicks a rock with his shoe. The snow has dripped away to reveal the undergrowth. Come spring, they will plant again. Grow once more.

“You don’t smile as much as you used to,” Sirius says suddenly. An abrupt, brutal conversation starter. Around him, his hair tangles in the night air. The bright end of Remus’s cigarette is a spark in the cold.  
  
“Don’t I?” Remus asks.  
  
“No. Sometimes I think you will. But then you stop short, like you don’t remember how.” Sirius scrubs a hand across his face. “I really thought... I don’t know, it’s stupid.” 

Remus looks up. Sirius watches him with furrowed brows, but when their eyes catch he skitters away. The moon glows eerily on his face. It is unnatural on him. He should never be cast in its bleak light. 

“When I heard you had Harry, I had this fantasy I think. During my trial. Of you, happy out here. But you haven’t been, have you?” 

Remus wants to say something ugly. Like, _how could you ever think I’d be fucking happy?_ Or _are you really that naive?_ But he can’t. Every day Sirius trudges towards the raw insides of Remus. Soon he will open him up and gaze in disgust at the blackened, empty spaces left behind. 

“It hasn’t been easy,” Remus replies blankly instead. 

“Was there...” Sirius pauses for a moment, then plows ahead. “Did you have someone?” 

Remus takes a drag of his cigarette. 

“I’ve had many people,” he says. There is an object in his chest he can barely move around. It hurts to speak. 

Sirius flinches back. Exhales. “Nobody, then.” 

Remus looks at him. “Sirius...” 

“You’re so close to being you again. With Harry. The old you. Not the war one. Except for your smile.” 

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Remus replies.

The cigarette burns to ash in his fingers, Remus throws it to the ground with a hiss. In the dark, Sirius is curved. His neck soft and vulnerable under the moon. Remus can see his breath crystalise in the air. His hands twitch at his sides. They’re on the precipice. Both of them balanced wobbly, neither wanting to fall.

“I promised you, when we first...” 

“Yes,” Remus interrupts. He remembers the exact words. Sirius had kissed him. They were so fucking young. And Remus had yelled, _you can’t fucking do that, when you leave... when you..._ And Sirius had kissed him again. Hard. _You won’t ever be alone Moony, I promise you._

“I’m sorry you were the last of us left,” Sirius says. “But you don’t have to be afraid anymore.” 

Remus closes his eyes. 

During the war, he was secretive. He hid the festered, ugly, animal parts of himself. He even began to enjoy the wild-freedom of a werewolf full moon. When he ran with vicious packs. When they bit and ravaged each other. Even when... no, he had not enjoyed Greyback.

But Sirius still doesn’t understand who he became. Will never understand. Remus had told him, _I won’t let war change us,_ when he knew he was already changed. Then they were gone, and with them the boy Remus had been. He'd thought, _that's what I deserve for thinking I could keep them_. Now there are too many things that can be taken away. He won't let them. 

“We've all made promises we couldn’t keep,” Remus replies.

"Please," Sirius says in a sick imitation of their argument. "Let me be there."

A pause. "I'm sorry," Remus says. 

Sirius smiles a small, defeated smile. He wouldn't be him, if he didn't have one last stab at it. Now he turns to go back inside. Says, “Don’t stay out here being miserable too long.”

Remus lets his eyes follow the slope of Sirius’s back in an old black sweater. His knobbly wrists. He says, “Sirius?” And the man turns back around. His grey eyes, distant. Tequila, a memory between them. 

“I miss you too.” 

*

The next morning, Remus can’t get up. His chest is leaden. Even soft, winter light is too bright. A hand has dissected him and left him exposed, his guts spilled on the ground. He is numb. 

“Oh,” Sirius says in understanding. He’s been summoned by Harry, who scampered to him when he failed to rouse Remus from bed. “Oh, Moony.” His voice is gentle. It has been a long time since Remus heard it like that. If he had energy, he would sob. 

Instead Remus turns away. His body curls. His intestines knot inside him. His bones crack and reform. His teeth grow, snap back. Shift and pull. Harry crawls into bed behind him. His tiny fingers trace soothing, incomprehensible patterns along Remus’s spine.

Sirius leaves, then returns with tea. The air smells of chamomile. In his heightened state he can almost taste old-pack and he aches with want. A wide palm brushes his forehead. The soft hum of transformation. Padfoot at his feet. 

He feels only moon. Only beast. And this time he allows himself to succumb, lost in the agony of pre-transformation. He disappears into pain. Savours it, relentlessly. Welcomes it. Despises it. 

*

When it is time to go, Harry cries. It is a miracle Remus can hold himself up to watch them depart. He leans heavy on the furniture. If even a feather landed on him, he would simply sink to the ground. Watching Harry sob, he wants to anyway. 

“Please don't,” Sirius says to Harry. Tries to hush and soothe his crying. It’s the first time he has witnessed a proper tantrum. Harry struggles in his arms. Tries to leap towards Remus. Every time he does, Sirius’s eyes harden. His mouth is straight and accusatory. _Look at what you’re doing to us._

Remus steps closer. “I will be okay, Harry,” he tries to reassure.

Harry cries harder. 

“Look at me,” Remus is firm. “Look at me.”

Harry’s eyes meet his. They are swollen and red. His irises are a deep, vivid green washed with tears. His breath shudders, stutters. _Oh,_ Remus thinks. _You and I are full of the same fear._

Instead he asks, “Have I ever lied to you?” 

“No,” Harry murmurs.

“Then hear me now. Sirius will take care of you. Ron is waiting, like every month. And you will see me tomorrow. I promise.” 

Harry reaches out again and this time Remus lets him wrap his arms around his neck and bury his nose in Remus’s hair. His face is wet. He smells of strawberry shampoo, the damp-dog of Sirius and home. In there is the memory of Lily and James. Sirius watches. 

“Go on,” Remus says. It breaks his heart. 

Harry turns away. Calmer now, he presses his face to Sirius’s. Their black hair intermingles and Remus thinks _my pack._

At the hearth, Sirius pauses. He turns. His eyes trace Remus desperately, angrily. He opens his mouth. Then closes it again. They have both begged enough. Both pleaded too much. Definitively, Sirius scoops some floo powder into his hand and throws it to the ground. A flash of green surrounds the pair. 

“The Burrow,” Sirius bites. 

And Remus is alone to face the moon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the start of some big conversations between the boys. And I know I say this every chapter, but gosh your comments honestly blow me away. There's been such an incredible response (thank you TikTok!) and I love all your keysmashes, angry exclamations and headcanons. Big apologies for the delay, life got slightly in the way. Next chapter is nearly done so shouldn't be too far away. Can't wait to hear what you think of this one x


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